


Shining One

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Battlefield Violence, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Homoerotic content aka slash, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - Tear-jerker, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Foreshadowing, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles., sibcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2003-11-07
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.</p><p>Mithril Awards 2004 - Voters’ Choice - Best romance or erotica – slash</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Notes

**Notes, Story**

Some of the events described in this story appear from Faramir’s point of view in the stories “Dreams Of Hope” and “Twenty Years Wiser.” The stories do not have to be read in order, however. Here, almost everything is from Boromir’s POV.

**Notes, General**

Following modern usage, I have not capitalized titles such as “king” and “queen” and “captain” unless they are used with a proper name or in place of a proper name, such as King Elessar or Captain Boromir.

Due to the stupidities of Microsoft Word, I have intermixed American and British spellings. May Franklin forgive me.

I did not use special characters for proper names such as Henneth Annun. The vagaries of fanfic archives, where documents are transferred from html to text to word docs and back again, result in some nasty messes where special characters are concerned. Let me know when we are all using Unicode.

My mental images of the characters are based on numerous re-readings of LOTR over the last 30 years. Yet, I have used physical appearances based on movie reality, while everything else is book reality. I hope this doesn’t confuse people. At times, it may have confused me.

**Chapter One**

Ever wonder if the men in LOTR slash would ever get laid if not for swordmasters? I’m not saying this is a _bad_ thing.

I selected a name for Boromir’s horse. We never learn it in LOTR. She would not have been the nameless horse that was lost on his way to Imladris, as Vingilot was by that time too old for the journey.

I used the Tolkien canon name “Mardil” for an original character because I like the way it evokes Mars, the god of war. No disrespect intended to Mardil the Steadfast.

Iorlas is Bergil’s uncle and a resident of Minas Tirith. Other than that, we know little of him. I heaped lots of plot on his sturdy frame. He is non canon because his real age is about five years younger than Faramir.

There has been no army in history that did not engage in homosexual practices. Some made a virtue of it. Tolkien, a soldier during World War I, not to mention a survivor of the British school system, could not have been unaware of such goings on. His thoughts on sexual love between men are unknown, but he would undoubtedly find LOTR slash fan fiction offensive. Thank goodness he doesn’t know about my story.

Regarding the pairing of a sixteen-year-old with a thirty-year-old: In the U.S., sixteen-year-olds are considered capable of such decisions _legally_ , although they usually aren’t capable mentally or emotionally. Older men who prey on younger men and women are a fact of life; such relationships are the **number one cause** of teenage pregnancies in the U.S. End of sermon.

While the crucial role of swordmasters in slash may be in doubt, there is no doubt whatsoever about the importance of nameless inns and hot baths.

**Chapter Two**

I got awfully fond of original characters Galdor and Wulf while working on this story. Both names are canon. Galdor the Tall was the father of Hurin and Huor in the First Age. Wulf was a wonderful bad guy of Rohan in the Third Age.

**Chapter Three**

The bath scene Faramir recalls very briefly in “Twenty Years Wiser.”

**Chapter Four**

The massage scene Faramir recalls very briefly in “Twenty Years Wiser.”

I borrowed the name “The Clay Pipe” from a real public house in the U.K.

**Chapter Five**

The late night visit Faramir recalls very briefly in “Twenty Years Wiser.”

Eradan is a Tolkien canon name.

I have come across fanfics where Boromir is careful not to “sexually harass” soldiers by only seducing ones not under his direct command. There are two problems with that: one, as the captain-general, absolutely every soldier was under his command. Two, it’s importing a 20th century moral into a fantasy world set more than a thousand years in a mythical past.

**Chapter Six**

The baby is Bergil.

**Chapter Seven**

Eldacar is another one of those useful Tolkien canon names used by multiple characters, therefore seeming fair game.

I find incest between siblings dreadfully sad in real life. I’m not sure why it is appealing in the fantasy world; probably has something to do with twin/hermaphroditic myths. Time to go read Robert Graves again.

**Chapter Eight**

_Please speak to me of him._ People grieving are frequently left alone with their grief because no one will talk of the dead. A sad and lonely thing.

**Shining One Timeline**

**All dates Third Age**

I have assigned specific months to some events where only the year is known. Factual dates are in bold; dates I made up are not.

**2976 : Denethor and Finduilas marry**  
 **March 2978 : Boromir born**  
2980 : Theodred born?  
 **February 2983 : Faramir born**  
 **2984 : Denethor becomes Steward**  
 **2988 : Finduilas dies**  
March 2992: Boromir receives Vingilot  
December 2992: Boromir sees Galdor and Wulf in barracks  
January 2993: Story starts  
January 2993: Boromir is warned in armoury  
 **March 2994: Boromir turns 16**  
Late May 2994: Boromir meets Mardil in Anorien  
July 2994: Boromir returns to M.T. first time  
2995 : Boromir leaves to the South  
2995 : Boromir returns to M.T. second time  
2996 : Boromir leaves to Ithilien  
January 2997 : Boromir returns to Minas Tirith  
2997 : Mardil buys home in Pelennor  
2997 : Galdor and Wulf  
2997 : Spies reported in Osgiliath  
2997 : Iorlas warns Boromir  
2997 : Mardil injured, Wulf killed  
2998 : Mardil leaves to Rohan six months later  
2998 : Iorlas reveals Mardil secret  
September 2998 : Faramir ill  
September 2998 : Mardil returns from Rohan in secret  
September 2998 : Boromir 10 month journey to South Gondor  
 **February 2999 : Faramir turns 16**  
April 2999 : Faramir meets Mardil  
June 2999 : Boromir returns from South Gondor  
July 2999 : Faramir leaves on journey  
3001 : Iorlas and Galdor meet  
3002 : Mardil is killed  
3002 : Galdor sees Boromir in Cair Andros  
3003 : Boromir Captain of the White Tower  
June 3006 : Faramir Captain of Ithilien -- I borrowed this date from Altariel’s lovely story “Proof.”  
3009: Galdor and Iorlas quarrel; Bergil is born  
3010: Vingilot dies  
 **June 3018 : Sauron attacks Osgiliath**  
June 28 3018 : Boromir visits Faramir in Henneth Annun  
 **July 4 3018 : Boromir leaves to Imladris**  
 **February 26 3019 : Boromir dies on Amon Hen**  
 **February 29 3019 : Faramir’s vision of Boromir in Elven Boat**  
 **March 1 3019 : Faramir leaves Minas Tirith to Ithilien**  
 **March 7 3019 : Frodo and Sam meet Faramir**  
 **March 9 3019 : Faramir leaves Henneth Annun**  
 **March 10 3019 : Faramir arrives in Minas Tirith, speaks with Pippin, Gandalf, and Denethor**  
March 10 3019: Faramir meets Iorlas and Galdor  
 **March 11 3019 : Denethor sends Faramir to Osgiliath**  
 **March 13 3019: Faramir is wounded and falls into a fever**

Further Boromir and Faramir tales are continued in my fics _Riderless_ , _Dreams Of Hope_ , and _Twenty Years Wiser_. These can be found in HASA general stories (HASA members only), or at:

http://www.livejournal.com/users/stewardess_lotr/


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

**January 2993 T.A.**

Boromir huddled beneath four woolen blankets, counting to one hundred. When he reached one hundred, he would get up and light the fire.

Three years earlier, when he had turned twelve, his father Denethor told him that no longer would a servant come to his room to light the fire before first light. Boromir did not see the point. A servant laid the fire for him each evening, and another servant cleared away the cold ashes in the afternoon. What was the good of his brief sprint to the fireplace?

Still, he thought, as he huddled under the blankets -- was he at fifty-eight? No, sixty-eight -- he presumed getting up to light the fire in the dead of winter prepared him for the future. He poked his head out of the blankets and blew out experimentally. His breath clouded in the frigid air. His feet protested at the thought of the icy stone floor.

One more year, and he would depart on his first campaign with soldiers. He had “slept rough” before, but riding on horseback a few miles, followed by sleeping outdoors on a summer night, was nothing like traveling twenty or more miles a day on foot with only the ground to sleep on at the end of it. And no food other than what you carried on your back, or caught on the way, he thought.

Eighty-four? Eighty-eight? Better start again at eighty. He made it to ninety-two when the door opened and his younger brother Faramir darted into the room. Faramir was wearing a blanket wrapped around his body, leggings, and boots. Boromir laughed at the ensemble. Faramir ignored him and went straight to the fire, lighting it. Then he kicked off his boots, leapt onto the bed, and burrowed into Boromir’s blankets, his own wrapped around his shoulders.

Boromir shrieked when Faramir’s cold feet touched his shins, and fought hard to protect himself. At last he was well insulated by blankets from his brother’s freezing feet. Faramir made a tent out of his blanket, sitting cross-legged on the bed, only his face showing.

“Aren’t you going to thank me for lighting the fire?” Faramir asked. His face was serene, as if they had not fought like madmen moments before.

Boromir groaned in exaggerated pain. “You woke me up, tried to steal my blankets, and put your horrible feet on me. You get no thanks!”

Faramir smiled. This was what his brother said every time he lit the fire. “You’re welcome, then,” he said.

Boromir sat up, swaddled in a blanket, and yawned. Sunrise was less than a quarter of an hour away, he thought, judging by the light in the room.

“Boromir, what is an arse bandit?”

Boromir did not control his face in time; he grimaced at the look of triumph in Faramir’s eyes.

He had lost count of the embarrassing subjects Faramir had surprised him with. Faramir’s curiosity at age six had been appalling; Faramir at ten was worse. The boy took a perverse pride in baffling him, Boromir thought ruefully. Years earlier, he had wondered at Faramir’s reliance on him, not their father, for information, but he had stepped into the role so completely he would have been surprised if Faramir had gone to Denethor for help with any subject.

“Where did you hear that?” Boromir asked, his face under control. Had to have been soldiers!

“Two soldiers in the armoury. Our swordmaster took me there” -- Faramir paused at Boromir’s snort; Faramir had done nothing more than hold a sword briefly, so calling the man _our_ swordmaster was wishful thinking -- “and they weren’t paying attention to me. They were talking about another soldier, and one of them said he was the greatest arse bandit that ever lived. Then they laughed so hard they spit up their ale.”

“What do you think it means?” Boromir turned the tables on him. He had concluded in the last two years that Faramir understood almost anything he heard. And he was damned if he was going to explain arse bandit without a fight!

Faramir looked thoughtful. “They thought it funny, so it couldn’t be anything too bad, except they used the word arse, and you told me not to say that. Might be some kind of joke, although it doesn’t make sense.”

Boromir’s own knowledge was skimpy, yet he knew enough to describe it. He began to mumble about the thing men had between their legs and bodily orifices. He could tell by Faramir’s expression he was failing to enlighten him.

Oh, dear gods, Boromir thought. Sooner or later, I am going to have to explain everything to him. Men and women. Men and men. Not women and women, because everyone knows that never happens. What would they do, after all?

He abandoned euphemisms. “It means taking your cock” -- he gestured to his crotch -- “and putting it up a man’s bum.”

Faramir was amazed. “Why?”

Good question, Boromir thought. Another thing I have to explain. “Have you ever touched yourself there?” He didn’t wait for an answer: Faramir’s bright red face was ample reply. “Fine. So you know it feels good. That’s why men do it.”

Faramir, quite pink, nodded. “What about . . . ”

“The man it is being done to? I don’t know. Some seem to like it well enough.”

In the barracks a month earlier, late at night, Boromir had seen two men together on a bed in a dark corner. The men were lying down, face to face. They were almost silent, but Boromir’s attention was first drawn to them by a soft moan. The blanket covering them had slipped down, revealing that the one below had his legs wrapped around the bare body of the man above.

The men had seen him, or heard him, and pulled away from each other. Boromir had kept walking as if he had not seen. What still bewildered him was that the men had been kissing. A shiver ran up his spine, remembering the men’s flushed faces, their closed eyes, and open mouths . . .

“Boromir? Why _bandit_?”

“I think they meant a man who has as many other men as possible.” Boromir paused for a moment to think. “Or it may mean _any_ man who does that sort of thing.” He laughed. “Promise me you will stay out of the barracks . . . I mean, the armoury,” he corrected himself, his face reddening.

“I can’t stay out of them, I’m going to be a soldier! Are they all arse bandits?”

“No, not all.” He leaned close to Faramir and said in a low growl, “Never bend over if someone asks you to!” Faramir shrieked, laughing, and ran from the room, pulling the blankets off the bed.

“You forgot your boots!” Boromir shouted.

***

Three days later, Boromir found himself in the maligned armoury. He was being fitted for his first chain mail, a sleeveless tunic that ended at his hips. Later, when he had finished growing, a full hauberk would be made for him: mid-thigh length and long-sleeved. His swordmaster was walking with him, complaining that they had put it off for too long.

“You think it’s hard to wield a sword now, wait until you are wearing seventy pounds of gear,” the swordmaster chortled. Boromir tried to smile appreciatively. His swordmaster left him in the middle of a corridor when he caught sight of an old friend. Boromir promised to wait for him.

He looked around him in curiosity. He had been in the armoury many times, and had grown used to the smell of hot metal, leather, and men. Soldiers went back and forth briskly, carrying out orders. He could see into the work room where leather clothing, belts, gloves, and boots were mended. Engrossed in the craftsmen’s activities, he did not notice the two soldiers approaching him. Finally, they drew so close he was startled and looked up. Both were tall and much alike at first glance. Their hair was dark and pulled back, and they were clean shaven. Their faces were stern yet handsome. They were smiling at him, and their smiles were unpleasant. His greeting died on his lips.

“So, this is the boy who likes to watch,” the soldier on the left, the taller of the two, said in a low voice. His eyes were grey, his expression mocking. Boromir guessed he topped six feet by four inches or more. The soldier on the right, only two inches shorter than the other, stepped directly in front of Boromir.

“Did you get an eyeful, boy?” The taller one on the left spoke.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Boromir said, and lowered his gaze to the floor. He had last seen the two soldiers undressed and intertwined on a bed.

The soldiers each took one of his arms and pulled him, unresisting, down a little-used hall off the main corridor. A hand grasped his chin and tilted his downcast face up.

He nervously looked into the face in front of him. The man on the bottom. His eyes were brown and had thick, dark lashes. When he had seen the men that night, he had noticed how handsome both were. He had thought that men who lay with other men were girlish, soft. These men were not; they were taller and stronger than he. He felt a thrill of fear.

“Give him something to remember you by,” the taller one whispered. The man in front of him nodded, and bent down to kiss Boromir’s mouth. The touch of the lips did not last long, but Boromir felt his stomach plunge down sickeningly, and his legs trembled. The hand on his chin stayed and the man looked him up and down. A smile warmed his face, and he almost appeared friendly.

“Well, well. I think you liked that,” he whispered. The taller man laughed, and the two men walked off together, their laughter echoing in the hall.

Boromir stood frozen in place for several moments before he could force his limbs to move.

***

Hours later, he was alone in his room at last. He was still shaky from his encounter with the men. What he had seen, what they had said, what he had explained to Faramir: it all swirled in his brain unpleasantly. Why had the men been cruel to him? He had meant them no harm. Could they not see that?

The experience had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. When the man had kissed him, he had grown hard, and the two men had seen it. _You liked that._ Not until he had moved did he learn of his condition.

He imagined being kissed by the brown-eyed man again, the two of them naked, on a bed, the man on top of him. He could feel the touch of the man’s hair on his shoulders . . .

Grimly, he undressed for bed, getting under the blankets, not looking down. He had stayed hard, on and off, all day. He didn’t want to touch himself in the state he was in. To do so would be to acknowledge that he had corrupt desires. But how would he ever sleep if he did not relieve the ache?

Closing his eyes, making himself invisible, he touched himself reluctantly. The familiar sensation made him utter a low groan, only there was a greater urgency this time. He reached from the bed and took a candle off the table next to it. Trying not to contemplate what he was doing, he put the candle end in his mouth, wetting it, and sought to push it inside himself.

He struggled to find the right position. Finally he managed it, lying on his side, one leg pulled up so his knee touched his chin. He was surprised at the ease with which the candle entered his body. For a moment he stayed still, then he pushed it experimentally, moving it in and out. It felt . . . strange. He grasped his cock to stroke it at the same time, but it was difficult. His hand slipped on the candle end and a bolt of pleasure shot through him. Dear gods, what was that? And could he make it happen again?

He rolled onto his stomach, one hand below him and one reaching behind him. He bent his knees and lifted his hips, his head and shoulders resting on the bed. Quickly he found a rhythm that was going to shatter him if he kept it up. He imagined brown eyes with dark lashes, and teeth on the back of his neck. In two minutes, he came harder than he had had in his entire short life.

***

**May 2994 T.A.**

Boromir breathed in deeply. The green smell was so good he wanted to eat it. He had left the city behind for his first campaign.

An easy one, admittedly: surveying the borders of Gondor and Rohan along the Anduin to the North. Thanks to the easy terrain, the company were all on horseback.

His first chance at “sleeping rough” fortified his belief that being a soldier was what he was born to do. He loved it all: shooting game to eat, the meals cooked over a fire outdoors, washing himself out of a bucket, falling asleep by the firelight; so superior to his life in the city, where his every move was watched, evaluated.

What he loved most was the company of the soldiers. Wary of him at first, they had accepted him warmly, and the miles sped by effortlessly when surrounded by their good humor and high spirits. There did not seem to be an arse bandit among them, although their jokes were obscene, embracing lewd subjects such as which soldier had bedded the most women. The married men boasted crudely of what their wives had suffered their last night at home. His vocabulary expanded rapidly.

After a day or two, Boromir laughed freely with them, even when the target was himself. They wasted no time labeling him “the maiden,” although the name did not stick, as someone came up with a better: shining one.

Boromir realized, too late, that he should have resisted his father’s and his swordmaster’s attempts to make him impressive. His chain mail was too new, his horse too elegant, and his beard too sparse. Among the men’s somber and well-worn gear, he was out of place in his luxurious clothes. But his horse -- he wasn’t going to give her up, no matter what!

The mare had been his since he turned fourteen, and they loved each other. She was pale gold with a white mane and tail, and he had named her Vingilot, or Foam-Flower, after the vessel of Earendil. It was his golden horse, his dark gold hair, and the brilliant newness of his equipment that had spawned the nickname.

They were fifty leagues from Minas Tirith, about to meet up with a company of the same size that patrolled the northern borders. Some of the one hundred and twenty men he had ridden with would replace the soldiers afield, giving them a chance to ride back to their homes for a few months. The men would be, therefore, ecstatic to see them. From the comments of the soldiers, he gathered that they would have an informal party, with song and music by the few amateur musicians in the ranks.

Late in the afternoon, they drew near the multiple streams of the Entwash, where they flowed into the Great River, the site of their rendezvous. It was late Spring, and the air was swiftly growing chill.

Ah, it was wonderful to be sixteen, to have a fast horse, and to ride out in the open plains! Boromir took another breath of the rich grassy air.

***

The two companies met on the border of Anorien. They immediately made camp by one of the streams of the Entwash, and the two hundred men milled about as if they were at a fair. Over twenty men, on horseback and on foot, patrolled the borders of the camp, so Boromir did not see all of the company at first.

Boromir settled at the large fire where the best singers had gathered. Half a dozen of the Rohirrim had joined them, and a vocal duel was taking place. Boromir listened with delight as each group took turns singing, the winners being judged by the applause they drew. He considered joining in, for he knew he had a good voice, then decided it would be better this first night if he stayed to himself, remembering too well the hard stares he had received from the men in the company they had joined. He smiled; he would prove himself to them, though many would be gone in a few days.

He did not notice the foot sentries coming back. Then he heard a few men at the fireside sighing exaggeratedly about it being their watch, and they shuffled out into the darkness. Returning sentries on horseback rode within the circle of light from the fire.

It was like a blow to the stomach when Boromir first saw him. He saw the man’s horse first, a well bred animal undoubtedly from Rohan, with an unusual spotted white and brown coat. Then he noticed the man leaping from the horse in one easy movement. The man was tall, strong, with pale golden hair. He walked up to the fire and held his hands near it. He looked up and his eyes went straight to Boromir.

That was when it happened: a burning that started in Boromir’s groin and seared down his legs. He forgot to breathe. An enormous smile came over the man’s face as he held Boromir’s gaze, making him even better looking, which seemed impossible. He had long straight hair, like the riders of the Rohirrim, and he was clean shaven, yet his features were those of a man of Gondor, with a strong nose and chin, and well defined eyebrows darker than his hair. He tethered his horse and walked around the fire to Boromir, sitting next to him on the ground.

“I’ve never seen you before. I’m Mardil.” He offered his hand to Boromir, who clasped it briefly. To Boromir’s horror, his hand shook as it met Mardil’s. Mardil’s smile widened again and Boromir felt a silly grin crawl onto his face.

“Leave that one alone, Mardil!” a burly man shouted from the other side of the fire. “That’s the steward’s son. He’s our shining one.” The men within range of the declaration -- and there were many, for the man was blessed with a booming voice -- laughed, and Boromir saw that the men who had looked at him coldly earlier were smiling in a friendlier fashion.

Mardil’s manner changed, taking in Boromir’s appearance at a glance: the rich fur-lined cloak, new boots, and shirt of supple leather. “Your pardon, my lord.”

“Please.” Boromir managed to form a few words. “Call me Boromir.”

Mardil smiled again. Not the beautiful unrestrained grin that Boromir desperately wanted to see again, but still a smile of warmth and friendliness. “Very well, Boromir.”

Companionably, they sat by the fire together for the rest of the evening. Mardil courteously shared food with him; Boromir could not swallow more than a few mouthfuls. There was little ale to drink, as they had traveled far and light, yet what Boromir had went straight to his head.

He stood up to relieve himself, and Mardil stood with him. Boromir stumbled; Mardil’s hands closed on his waist to steady him. He fled, embarrassed. After finding a secluded place to make water, it took a long time because he had grown hard, and had to wait to soften.

Later that night, wrapped in his cloak, surrounded by sleeping men, Boromir wished desperately for the privacy of his room back in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. He positively ached. Like a giddy dream, his mind played over and over his meeting with Mardil, from his first glance, to his smile, to his hands touching Boromir’s waist. Thankfully, the day’s long ride caught up with him, and he slept.

The next day, he learned that Mardil was among the men leaving in two days to return home. He was crushed, for Boromir would be staying with the company for two weeks to learn the terrain, and then he would ride home with a few men, chiefly surveyors.

Dejectedly, he prepared to ride north with the surveyors up the western shore of the Anduin. The Entwash was a land that was lesser known to the men of Gondor, hence the Rohirrim that had joined them: the Riders would guide them through the frequently marshy land.

Boromir glanced over the two dozen men assembling, and gaped when he saw Mardil. Mardil rode up to Boromir, who sat stiffly on his mare.

“I’m going to ride with you today,” Mardil said. His smile was polite. “I know this land well. My mother came from Rohan.” Boromir nodded tensely.

They rode side by side in silence. Boromir finally broke out of his constrained manner when he noted the way the Rohirrim periodically rose in their saddles and looked about, like the small animals of the grasslands he had seen while riding, popping their heads out of holes to look for predators. The sight made him grin.

“Can you do that?” Mardil asked suddenly. “It’s harder than it looks.” He signaled his horse to gallop, rose in his saddle, and looked over his shoulder at Boromir.

Boromir didn’t hesitate. Vingilot was surprised, but, as he expected, she didn’t bat an eye. He stayed standing in the stirrups as his mare passed Mardil at a gallop. He heard the man’s laughter behind him, and waited for him to catch up.

“Your horse, she came from Rohan, did she not?”

Boromir nodded: so much easier than speaking, as he could not trust his voice. The gallop had exhilarated him. He sat back in the saddle and smiled at Mardil. He realized belatedly he was allowing more of his feelings to show than he wished and tried to alter his expression to one of ordinary friendliness.

Mardil leapt off his horse in one quick movement. Boromir tried to do the same and fell hard on his rump. Vingilot stood next to him, unperturbed as always. Boromir folded his arms across his stomach and laughed. He bent his knees to ease his jarred back.

Fighting a smile, Mardil stood over him. He offered Boromir a hand and pulled him up. Boromir was laughing so hard it took him a moment to realize Mardil held his hand tight to his chest, forcing Boromir to stand close. Boromir stopped laughing as abruptly as if he had been dunked in the Entwash.

“Boromir,” Mardil spoke low. “I’m delaying my return. I’ve spoken to the captain, and he’s agreed I shall ride back with you to Minas Tirith in two weeks. One more man to protect the steward’s son would not be remiss.”

His grip on Boromir’s hand loosened, and Boromir watched as his hand, moving with a will of its own, took Mardil’s hand, his fingers sliding between Mardil’s fingers. Mardil’s flashing smile came for a moment, and Boromir leaned into him, his eyes closing. The taller man put his hands, palms down, on Boromir’s chest, holding him at a distance.

“Good,” Mardil said quietly, as if they had settled a matter after a long discussion. He mounted his horse in one swift movement.

Boromir did not attempt to copy the older man’s skill this time. He clambered onto his horse as if he had never seen one before. His cheeks burned as he thought of how close he had come to kissing Mardil.

***

A few days passed , and Boromir thought he had a grip on himself again. The men due to ride back had departed, and Boromir breathed a secret sigh of relief, as he had feared that a last minute change would force Mardil’s departure after all. Knowing he would be with Mardil for at least a month, he relaxed slightly.

Nearly every day, he managed to get away from all the men and relieve the tension that kept building up in his groin. It was not enough, however, so at night he removed himself from the fire and found he could wrestle himself into submission with reasonable quietness, sleeping twenty feet away from the other soldiers. For the last year, somewhat to his horror, he had thought of the two soldiers in the barracks whenever he touched himself. Now Mardil was there in his mind . . . much more agreeable company!

Mardil was extremely friendly towards him, but did not touch him, or spend any time with him in private. Boromir nearly sulked, but it was not in his nature to hold a grudge. Merely being near Mardil filled him with joy, and if the man did not think it right to do more at this time, Boromir would trust him and wait. They had a month. A month!

***

Two weeks passed, and they turned for the long road home. Boromir was accompanied by two dozen men including Mardil and the surveyors. He thought the number excessive, but the captain of the company had insisted on it. Boromir had not put up a fuss, imagining what would happen to the man if any harm befell him. His father Denethor would . . . well, it did not bear thinking about.

Most of the men accompanying him would not ride all the way to Minas Tirith, however. They would turn away to Cair Andros during the last fifty miles of the journey.

For five days, they jostled along the western shore of the Anduin, then they struck due west to the base of the White Mountains. Boromir jumped when he noticed Mardil riding at his side; usually, Mardil was far ahead.

“We’ve had an easy journey this time; no thieving Orcs.” Mardil spoke authoritatively.

Boromir was puzzled. “What could they possibly thieve from us? We have nothing of value.”

Mardil kept his face straight. “They would be after what’s between your legs.”

Boromir flushed, then laughed. His horse!

Mardil chuckled. “Most of the attacks here are raiding parties, after the horses of Rohan. They are not likely to attack us, as we are all armed, and they prefer to steal in under cover of darkness to attack poorly defended homesteads. Still, I’m glad to leave the riverbank behind us.”

They saw no enemy, and the days passed peacefully. They did not ride in haste, going no more than twenty or thirty miles a day. Boromir started to panic. Cair Andros was near and from there it was only two days more to Minas Tirith. Mardil had not touched him since the day he had fallen from his horse. They had barely spoken.

That evening, gloom overcame his sunny nature and he stared morosely into the fire. One of the younger soldiers joined him and looked at him with a sympathetic expression.

“Not happy about going home?” he asked Boromir. He introduced himself as Iorlas.

Boromir smiled with relief. He hated being trapped in his foul mood. “Not really. I love . . . this.” He gestured at their peaceful surroundings.

“No doubt you will make another journey soon,” Iorlas said. He resembled many other men of Minas Tirith, tall and proud, with dark hair and grey eyes. His face was gentler than most.

“Yes, I’ll be riding south next time. And then to Ithilien. My father wants me to see as much of Gondor as possible before I receive a permanent posting. I hope to serve at Cair Andros or Osgiliath.” Boromir knew it was unlikely; they were dangerous postings for an inexperienced soldier. Yet a fierce love of his land burned in him. He wanted to be on the shores of the Anduin, where encounters with Orcs and other servants of the enemy were frequent. “But that is better than four or five years away,” he said softly.

Iorlas looked thoughtfully at him. “My lord -- Boromir -- I want you to know that the men like you.”

Boromir flushed. Iorlas continued speaking, kindly ignoring his embarrassment. “When I heard that the steward’s son would be riding with us, well, you don’t want to know what we all said.” He grinned. “You are nothing like what we feared. In fact, I think -- as do others -- that you have the makings of a great soldier.”

Boromir beamed. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” a new voice said, and Mardil’s hand came to rest on Boromir’s shoulder. Mardil used him, unnecessarily, for support, sitting down next to him gracefully. Boromir swallowed and forced himself to look into the fire. Mischief flickered in him, and he turned to address Iorlas.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good as Mardil?” he said, making his voice a trace mocking.

Iorlas laughed. “He has more than ten years on you, so who knows. Certainly you look like him, so perhaps you shall come to resemble him in other ways.”

Boromir turned to Mardil in surprise. It had never occurred to him that he looked like Mardil. The words passed his lips before he had a chance to recall them. “But I’m not that beautiful.”

He nearly crumpled to the ground in embarrassment as Iorlas’s eyes went wide. Mardil laughed, defusing the tension slightly.

“You are kind to an old man, Boromir.” Mardil patted Boromir on the back.

Iorlas raised his eyebrows, stood, and walked away. Boromir did not understand his expression. Was it a look of warning?

He turned at last to Mardil. They were alone at the small fire. It was high summer and there was still light in the sky. Around them sleeping forms lay. The sentries were hidden. Mardil stood and took his hand, pulling him up.

They were far away from the Anduin, at the base of the White Mountains, near an enormous wood. Mardil led him into the trees. As soon as they were out of sight, he let go of Boromir’s hand. He stood in front of Boromir, his arms relaxed at his sides.

“They say Wild Men live in these woods; they are rumored to eat the flesh of men.” Mardil was plainly disbelieving. His smile vanished.

“What do you want, Boromir?”

Doubt slithered down Boromir’s spine. Had he been a fool? Had Mardil been kind to him because he was the steward’s son?

He had to acknowledge that Mardil had done absolutely nothing to make him think that . . . Despair filled him as he was forced to put his longings into words: he wanted Mardil to make love to him.

He had fought his unnatural desire for the last year; over and over, he told himself that his craving for a man’s touch would lead to disaster, that no happiness could ever come from it. Meeting Mardil had demolished his scruples.

Tears stung his eyes. In the last three weeks, he had learned something terrifying about himself. He did not simply desire men; he wanted their love, as well. He wanted Mardil’s love.

“I want to learn how to be a soldier,” Boromir said, his own words surprising him. He heard the challenge in his voice, bordering on rudeness. By the gods, he was not handling this well. He was alone with Mardil at last, and he was trying to start a fight! He was relieved when Mardil smiled at him and did not take offense.

“I think we can make a soldier of you,” Mardil said gently. He leapt forward, tackling Boromir. They crashed to the ground. Mardil moved to pin him, but Boromir’s training enabled him to elude the older man’s strong grasp. They grappled on the ground, grunting when an elbow or knee pressed into a tender spot. Boromir fought back fiercely, his roiled emotions inflaming him.

Again and again, Boromir slipped out of Mardil’s grasp, but at last Mardil pinned Boromir beneath him. Mardil’s hair was wild about his face. His blue eyes gleamed, catching the last of the day’s light. His lips parted and he breathed hard. Boromir responded to the body above him and moved so that Mardil was not resting on his groin. His maneuver failed; Mardil pushed his legs apart and lay full length on top of him. Boromir was no longer pinned, but he was even less capable of moving than before. Mardil’s weight pressed into his erection.

Mardil smiled, a predatory smile Boromir had not seen before. “You are as beautiful as me. More, Boromir. Give me a kiss.”

Boromir trembled as Mardil’s lips closed on his. Mardil’s mouth opened, and tentatively he opened his own. Their tongues touched. Unconsciously, his hands slid down to the man’s buttocks, and he ground himself into Mardil’s groin.

“Not so fast,” Mardil gasped. He kissed Boromir harder, and the kiss was overwhelming: so deep, so wet, Boromir was lost in it. His hands were in Mardil’s hair, and he stroked the wild softness of it as his mouth was invaded by Mardil’s tongue. Boromir groaned as Mardil’s erection rubbed against his own through their clothing.

They parted lips for a moment to breathe.

“I want you,” Boromir said, answering Mardil’s question at last. He was rewarded with the gleaming smile.

“You will have me,” Mardil whispered.

***

Boromir would have cried in frustration if he had known what was going to happen next. He followed Mardil back to camp, and watched, stunned, as Mardil calmly rolled up in a blanket and went to sleep. Boromir was awake for hours, alternately grinning with joy and sighing with disappointment, unable to sleep until long after the middle of the night had passed.

The next day, the party headed south-east. The men going to Cair Andros took their leave, and a moment passed before Boromir saw that he was completely alone with Mardil. He watched the last of the soldiers and surveyors fade into the distance, then looked at the man at his side. The blinding smile dazzled him, and Boromir had his first kiss while riding on horseback.

“Now do you forgive me for waiting?” Mardil said. His smile was wicked. “I convinced them all you were not keen to return home with so many minders.”

Boromir was ready to drag Mardil to the nearest bush; Mardil appeared to have another destination in mind. Boromir eventually calmed himself sufficiently to talk about soldiering and warfare with Mardil as they rode along.

He was stunned to find that Mardil was thirty years of age -- he had thought him only twenty-five or even less by his appearance -- and he listened humbly as Mardil told him of the many skirmishes he had fought in. For the first time, Boromir realized that he had heard of the man at his side.

Mardil of Anorien was renowned among the soldiers for seeking postings where the danger was greatest, and his bravery and skill were considered to be unsurpassed. His current assignment in Anorien had been given to him against his wishes, due to his extensive knowledge of the countryside. It was a brief peaceful interval in his ten years as a soldier of Gondor.

Near the end of the day, when they were thirty miles distant from Minas Tirith, they came to a hamlet, large enough to have a small inn. They dined there in comfort, their horses getting attention first.

They ate hugely, their first hearty meal in weeks, and drank two pints each of the inn’s excellent ale. Boromir sat back drowsily. It was good to be out of the wild, with a roof over his head, and a roaring fire close by. Mardil excused himself to speak to the innkeeper.

With half closed eyes, Boromir watched Mardil walk back to him. Mardil had shed all of his heavy outer clothing in the warm air of the inn, and Boromir relished the sight of him. Mardil passed six feet by two inches. His hair hung nearly to his waist. Boromir smiled as he realized Mardil’s hair matched the pale gold of Vingilot. They sat together for a few minutes in companionable silence.

“Come on, sleepy head. The innkeeper will give us hot water for baths. You can go home tomorrow smelling respectable.”

He followed Mardil and the innkeeper down a long hallway with many doors. At the end of the hallway was a large pleasant room with two beds and two wooden tubs. Boromir saw their luggage in a corner. The innkeeper left, saying kindly, “Good night, lads. Rest well.”

The door shut and Boromir stared at it, astounded. He turned to Mardil and saw the dazzling smile. He ran to Mardil and hugged him tightly. Mardil pushed him away, laughing. “Get into the tub, you filthy soldier.”

Boromir hesitated, suddenly shy of undressing before an audience. Mardil raised an eyebrow and said, “I’ll be in the common room. Hurry up because I don’t want that water to get cold!” He left, and Boromir immediately stripped and got into the tub.

After having cold baths out of a bucket for a month, it felt wonderful to wash his hair and get completely clean. He put on his last remaining clean clothes, the most luxurious he had, completely unsuitable for soldiering, then went in search of Mardil.

Mardil was drinking ale, talking to a couple of local farmers. He smiled at Boromir’s elegant appearance, and handed the rest of his drink to Boromir. “Drink that up. Give me twenty minutes.”

Boromir nodded, and his heart began to pound. Mardil had steadily steered him towards this place. Perhaps he had had it in mind ever since he told Boromir he would ride back with him. Boromir shivered, and smiled at everyone in the room. They smiled back at the happy young man.

He gave up after fifteen minutes. He could not wait any longer. He knocked on the door and entered when Mardil replied indistinctly.

***

The room was dark. Boromir spied Mardil in the largest bed. The blankets were over him and only his wet golden hair was visible. Boromir walked up to him and touched the wet hair. His nervousness was abruptly gone. He was relaxed, dreamy.

Mardil turned under the blankets. His sopping hair was in tendrils around his face. “Come here,” Mardil said.

Boromir shed his clothes and got into the bed. He lay under the blankets a foot away from Mardil and stared at him.

Mardil did not appear to be in any hurry. He reached for one of Boromir’s hands and brought it to his mouth, kissing it. He opened up Boromir’s hand and licked the palm. His tongue traveled slowly all over Boromir’s hand, and then he put Boromir’s middle finger in his mouth and sucked on it. Boromir moaned. He had had countless fantasies about this moment, and he was grasping at last that he knew absolutely nothing, nothing at all. Only a few minutes had passed and already he was more aroused than he had thought possible.

“What do you want, Boromir?” Mardil asked, a faint smile on his lips.

“You,” Boromir breathed. They drew together at the same moment, embracing each other, kissing, stroking hands over bare flesh. Mardil’s leg was between his thighs and Boromir rubbed against it. He cried out, climaxing from the brief contact. He was deeply embarrassed, then his arousal shot up a few more notches when Mardil ran a finger through the come on Boromir’s leg and licked it off his finger.

“Don’t worry, eager one. There is more where that came from.” Boromir gasped when Mardil’s hand closed on his cock. It was getting hard again already!

Mardil released him and lay on top of him, then slid down, licking his chest. He licked all of the come off of Boromir’s stomach and thighs until Boromir was incoherent. He groaned when Mardil’s tongue touched his cock. He writhed on the bed as Mardil licked him slowly, and his toes curled so hard, when Mardil took him in his mouth, he feared his legs would cramp.

This was something he knew nothing of; it was astonishingly good. His one fear was that it would stop. His anxiety about his unnatural wants was not even a glimmer in his mind. Mardil’s fingers stroked his balls and beneath; Boromir parted his legs so the fingers could touch him everywhere, anywhere. A finger stroked across his opening, and he erupted in Mardil’s mouth, his hands pulling hard at Mardil’s hair.

Mardil pulled himself up, licking his lips. “I want to take you. Do you know what I mean by that?”

Boromir whispered, “Yes.” Mardil’s erection pressed into his thigh. Mardil reached to the bedside table and grasped a small bottle. He poured some of the contents in Boromir’s hands. “Put it on me.”

Trembling, Boromir rubbed the oil on Mardil’s cock. It was alive and warm in his hands. He moaned in anticipation. He bent his knees and spread his legs as Mardil rubbed the oil on his opening. It was awkward for a moment, for he did not know what to do to make it easier, but eventually Mardil had his erection aimed at the right place and started to push. He moved slowly. Boromir gasped as the first inch went in.

He watched Mardil’s face change, the muscles in his face going slack, his eyelids getting heavy. His mouth was open in a faint smile. Suddenly, he pushed hard and was fully inside. Boromir’s legs and arms wrapped around Mardil involuntarily, and he bit Mardil’s shoulder. It didn’t hurt, only burned a little, and that was going away already . . .

He let out a sharp cry when Mardil brushed against the sensitive area inside him, and immediately Mardil changed his movements so he was rocking on it over and over. Boromir gasped when Mardil grabbed his erection and stroked it swiftly. “I’m going to . . . ”

“Come!” Mardil demanded, and watched Boromir climax for the third time. As Boromir’s contractions squeezed him, Mardil pushed in hard and fast, climaxing immediately.

They collapsed together. Boromir kissed Mardil’s face frantically. “I love you,” he said, and watched the older man’s eyes widen in surprise.

Mardil looked at him solemnly. ‘By the gods, I think you do,” he said, and kissed Boromir gently. “And if I don’t love you now, I’m going to very soon, my shining one.”

Boromir kissed him fiercely. “Can we do this again?” he asked. Mardil laughed, and Boromir was momentarily embarrassed.

“Don’t worry, the night is long. We will do everything you wish.”

They rested for a while, and then Mardil turned him over onto his stomach and took him again. He was much more demanding this time, and Boromir dissolved under him. If it had not felt so good, he would have flushed with shame at the soft cries that came from his mouth, the way he spread his legs and raised his hips so that Mardil could take him completely. Being possessed like this was so satisfying he never wanted it to stop. How could anyone mock it, sneer at it? It was a gift from the gods.

***

Boromir opened one eye. Faramir was in his bed, his expectant face inches away. Boromir had arrived at Minas Tirith the night before and he was sleeping in for the first time in weeks. Or so he had hoped. The night at the inn had left him with only three hours of sleep. Over and over, Mardil had roused him, until Boromir was completely and blissfully drained. In the morning, before they had ridden on the last leg of their journey, he pled with Mardil to see him as soon and as often as possible.

But now he had an eleven-year-old boy to contend with, one insane with curiosity to hear about his travels. He crawled from the bed and stretched, groaning. Faramir left and brought breakfast back to him, and Boromir accepted the bribe, eating as if he were starving -- which he was. The night before, he had had only a meager cold supper.

He told Faramir as much as he could remember. Faramir was thrilled with all of it, and howled with laughter when Boromir told him of falling off his horse. Boromir embroidered his tale freely, playing up the danger of the unseen Orcs and Wild Men. He told his tale without mentioning Mardil by name. He knew he could not speak of Mardil, even in passing, without Faramir figuring out more than he should. He had never been able to fool Faramir.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

**January 2997 T.A.**

Faramir rose from bed before dawn and lit his fire. He had heard a commotion during the night, and he suspected that Boromir was home from his stint in Ithilien. For nearly three years, Boromir had traveled all over Gondor on short expeditions, and, thank the gods, Faramir thought, his brother would finally get a regular posting, most likely in Minas Tirith to begin with.

Faramir opened the door to his brother’s bedroom, saw the body on the bed muffled in blankets, and grinned as he lit the fire. He jumped onto the bed, bouncing Boromir on the mattress.

A snore greeted him. Boromir had certainly learned a lot from the soldiers, who could sleep like the dead whenever they got the chance.

Soon Faramir would be old enough to travel as well. Knowing his father Denethor’s opinion of him, he would be sent with the supply wagons, but he didn’t care. Everything Boromir had told him made him eager to explore, even though he loved the quiet hours he spent with his books. He sighed and slid under the blankets. His freezing feet were covered in woolen stockings, his welcome home gift to Boromir. He poked Boromir’s ribs with a finger.

Boromir muttered and rolled over, settling against him. Faramir wriggled his nose as his brother’s hair tickled it.

Boromir’s appearance had changed greatly since his first journey with the soldiers. He had grown his hair long, and was clean shaven. He was six feet in height, muscular, and as hard as wood. His head and upper body were an uncomfortable weight on Faramir’s chest. Faramir took some of his own hair and tickled Boromir’s nose with it. Boromir snorted but didn’t move.

Faramir had grown his hair longer as well, emulating his brother, and shaved off his sparse beard every other day. His childish roundness had vanished, and his form was lean and angular, though he had a long way to go before he had his brother’s strength, he thought. Stretching his feet down, touching his toes to Boromir’s, he estimated his brother had three inches on him in height. Boromir muttered something again and his hand thudded onto Faramir’s stomach.

Ha! Faramir was not going to submit to tickling. His belly had suffered greatly over the years. He made himself ready to counter attack, then grunted when Boromir put a leg over him. For the gods sake, when was Boromir going to wake up? Boromir’s breath on his neck was oddly disturbing.

At last, he could make out Boromir’s words. “Shining one,” he whispered into Faramir’s neck. Faramir flinched as soft lips brushed his neck. Boromir’s hand dug at the waist of his breeches.

“Boromir!” he shouted, sitting up and pushing his brother off. Boromir shook his head and looked at him blankly, then went from confusion to fury instantly. “What are you doing in my bed?” he shouted.

“Trying to wake you up, you idiot. Get up, and I’ll bring your breakfast.”

Boromir grabbed a strand of Faramir’s long hair and said, “What is this?” His intent gaze took in Faramir’s newly angular face, the slender body. Boromir turned away as a flash of desire blazed downwards from his groin through his legs. He shivered and buried his face in a cushion.

Faramir tentatively touched his back. “Are you all right, Boromir?”

“You startled me.”

“You thought I was someone else!” Faramir said teasingly.

Boromir looked at him angrily. “How do you know?”

“You chewed on my neck and called me shining one, you ass.” Faramir was confused by Boromir’s expression. He thought it was funny, but Boromir seemed stricken. “Boromir, if you have a maid somewhere, I don’t care in the slightest, and I’ll try not to be insulted you took me for some foolish woman!”

“No insult intended,” Boromir whispered. He attempted a smile.

“Good. I’ll get your breakfast.”

Boromir moved like someone sleepwalking, occasionally letting his eyes steal to Faramir. He had seen him little in the last three years, and his brother’s transformation agitated him.

“I was surprised, that was all it was,” Boromir told himself sternly. “You confused him with Mardil for a moment. Nothing more.” And yet he found himself watching his brother with guilty delight as they walked and talked together that day. Faramir brushed against Boromir continually, touching his arms, his back, even placing a hand on his thigh when they sat down together. “He doesn’t know . . . he has always done this. It is nothing.”

Boromir went to bed that night distraught, for his desire had returned again and again. He lay down on the bed and imagined turning to see Faramir there again, his gold-red hair streaming over the pillow, his face wearing that familiar and yet curiously new half smile. He reached for himself and stroked furiously, picturing Mardil thrusting against his back. But the face changed, the eyes larger, a darker blue, the lips fuller, the hair redder. Boromir came in his hand, shame sweeping through him.

***

Three days later, Boromir watched Mardil across a table in the Third Company mess in Minas Tirith. They had not seen each other for five months.

Mardil was laughing and talking with their ten companions at the table. During the last three years, Boromir had assembled a group of friends among the soldiers he had met on his travels. He and Mardil were the informal leaders of the group. The two of them were jokingly called the Shining Ones by the others, after someone had heard Mardil address Boromir that way absentmindedly.

Making a jest of it protected them, Boromir thought, as did their friends. The friends carried messages to each other throughout the ranks, and that made it easy for him to meet with Mardil unnoticed.

If there was aught else in the group other than friendship, Boromir overlooked it. The ten men were young and fair, and all of them grew their hair long and shaved every day, in conscious or unconscious imitation of the Shining Ones. There were two he thought longed for Mardil with unrequited passion, and he watched their adoring approaches to his lover with amused tolerance.

Boromir sipped thoughtfully from his mug of ale. He would be staying in Minas Tirith, or near it, for at least a few months, and he hoped that Mardil would be able to do the same. They had not yet had a chance to discuss it.

Mardil got up from the other side of the table, carrying his mug and chair with him, shoving the chair between Boromir and his neighbor.

“I have news that may surprise you,” he said, smiling into Boromir’s eyes. “I’ve found myself a home in the Pelennor.” He picked up his mug and took a swig of ale. Boromir did the same to cover his emotion. “An old farmhouse, small but solid. The farmer who owns the land has built a finer home, and he thinks the old one too good for his pigs.” He leaned closer to Boromir. “Would you like to see it?” he said in a low voice, his voice drowned by the clash of mugs and the raucous cries of men.

“Boromir! Why so quiet? Tell us more about your brother!” The mocking demand came from across the table. The company laughed at his expense, and he grinned. He had bored them all to tears, or so they claimed, with his accounts of Faramir’s riding abilities, his skill with weapons, his ready understanding of battle strategy, geography . . . was there anything the lad could not do?

The answer came to him sourly: earn the respect and love of Denethor -- that was his brother’s only failure. Boromir brooded on Denethor’s words to him the day before, the steward recommending that Faramir’s excursions be delayed for six months or a year, because Faramir “was not hale enough.” Boromir glowered at his mug. He had meant to fight it, but perhaps he would not; it would mean Faramir would be with him in Minas Tirith for a time.

***

He rode Vingilot slowly down the dark country lane. Mardil had promised to leave a lantern burning, and gave him clear instructions to the small farmhouse, but it was a moonless night and he was not familiar with the area, four miles north of Minas Tirith. At last he saw it, the only light seemingly for miles.

He tethered his horse in a shed next to Mardil’s steed, and knocked softly on the front door. It opened immediately, and he was in Mardil’s arms. After the first kiss, Mardil broke away and showed him his home. It was one large room, with areas for cooking, washing, dining, and sleeping. A hearth dominated one wall. Mardil had partitioned off the sleeping area with a finely made woven screen that he said had belonged to his mother. The room was well furnished, embellished with curiosities that Mardil had found on his travels.

“It must be costing you, to let this,” Boromir said admiringly.

Mardil smiled proudly. “I own it. As you know, when my parents died years ago, they left me their farm in Anorien. My uncle farmed it until recently; he has died with no heirs, so I’ve sold it.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your uncle. I didn’t know you had an uncle.” Boromir was always astounded at the meagerness of Mardil’s family. The man was alone in the world. All of his immediate relatives were dead.

“We weren’t close,” Mardil said mildly. “He was far more interested in the land than he was in me.” He drew Boromir to a couch by the fire. “Tell me of yourself. What have you been doing when you aren’t mooning over that brother of yours?”

Boromir laughed, and told him of his time in Ithilien. The land had fascinated him with its strange combination of beauty and danger. He had finally clashed with Orcs there. It was a small band, but they fought with a ferocity that surprised him. And the stench! Mardil nodded knowingly, pouring them both wine while Boromir talked.

Boromir fell silent and they kissed again. He could not continue the pretense of comrades in arms much longer. His eyes strayed to the bed.

Since he had encountered Mardil three years earlier, he had met with him many times, yet rarely longer than for a day or two. His travels, and Mardil’s service, had prevented it. Although Mardil was skilled at making arrangements, an entire night together was rare. Boromir was salivating at the thought that all would change, that he could have Mardil frequently, constantly . . .

“I hope you are not thinking of your brother right now. You have a dangerous gleam in your eyes.” Mardil said.

Boromir smiled. “I’m thinking of you.”

They rose and went to the bed, stripping off their clothes as they went. Without speaking, Boromir rolled onto his stomach and got up on his knees, Mardil immediately covering him with his body. Boromir felt oil splash his body and then Mardil entered him abruptly.

Every time they had been apart, they always began this way, with a half frantic coupling, Mardil riding him hard, stroking Boromir’s cock until he came. Something was wrong, however, even as Boromir groaned out his climax. Then he realized what it was. Usually, Mardil kissed and bit his neck, breathing endearments in his ears, as they made love. He had not done so, and Boromir wondered at it. He turned and gathered Mardil in his arms, seeking closeness.

“I’m going to be posted to Osgiliath. I asked for it.” Mardil said quietly. Boromir stiffened. While Gondor currently controlled Osgiliath, the control had been tenuous for centuries. It was a dangerous place to serve, with frequent injuries and fatalities. Mardil kissed Boromir softly. “I’ll only be a day’s ride away, my love.”

“That wasn’t necessary,” Boromir said angrily. He sat up. “I think I’ll ask for a posting to Osgiliath myself.” He watched with satisfaction the alarm that bloomed in Mardil’s face.

Then Mardil gave him an odd smile. “Are you angry with me, my love?” he asked.

Boromir snorted. “Of course I am. I do not approve of your plan to get yourself killed so that we can have a few more nights together.”

Mardil embraced him, still smiling as if at a private joke. “I want you to take me tonight.”

Boromir failed to control his surprise. He had never taken Mardil. As time went by, he was less and less inclined to bring it up. If Mardil had wanted it, he would have asked for it; certainly he was not shy about his other needs. And Boromir knew, deep down, he liked things the way they were, as much as that needled his manhood.

Mardil rolled over and knelt on his hands and knees. He looked at Boromir over his shoulder, his face expressionless. Boromir finally moved behind him and traced a finger across his lover’s opening. He had slid a finger inside Mardil a few times when sucking on his lover’s cock, so he had no fears he would hurt him. Something else, nameless, made him hesitate. His rapidly returning erection overcame his reluctance. He put oil on himself and started to push inside. He was surprised at the resistance, and pushed harder. He miscalculated the force needed and abruptly he was all the way in, gasping at the sensation.

Mardil cried out. “Take me,” he moaned. His upper body sank down onto the bed, his back arching.

Sweat broke out on Boromir’s body. Mardil’s muscles clenched him and tried to push him out. When he pushed in, the resistance was exquisite . . . He stopped abruptly. He had been pounding into the body beneath him.

“Faster,” Mardil gasped. Boromir kissed his neck, still moving cautiously.

“Not like that. Harder.” Mardil pushed back against him. Boromir complied unwillingly while Mardil begged him to take him hard.

Then something changed. He could no longer hear Mardil’s pleas. He was alone with his need and the body he drove into; he gripped Mardil’s hips hard enough to leave bruises and slammed into his lover, pulling out fully and plunging back in with each stroke. An overwhelming urge to dominate Mardil’s yielding body heightened his suddenly savage lust. As he came, he bent forward and bit Mardil’s shoulder to silence his scream of satisfaction.

He rolled off Mardil, shocked. He didn’t want to look at him.

He came out of his haze when Mardil kissed his ear. “I thought you had that in you.” Mardil’s voice was smug.

Boromir took him in his arms and held him close. “I’m sorry,” he said, kissing Mardil’s forehead. He slid a hand down to Mardil’s erection and then bent down to take it in his mouth. Slowly, lovingly, he brought Mardil to climax. He moved up and kissed Mardil. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Mardil’s face was flushed, dreamy. “I will want that again,” he said.

“Not like that,” Boromir said.

“Yes, like that,” Mardil said.

***

The Shining Ones and their companions were together four months later in the Third Company mess hall of Minas Tirith. Boromir’s request to be posted to Osgiliath had been denied by Denethor, who insisted he was needed at home for a time to learn the duties of his future role as Steward. That meant meetings with his father’s counselors and captains, entertaining guests, and other monstrously boring activities. He was kept sane by daily weapons practice with Faramir and his old swordmaster.

Thankfully, it was not hard to get away, and at least once a week he made his way to Mardil’s home. Sometimes he arrived there and found Mardil had not been able to come, and he slept alone. If he was lucky, Mardil would arrive later that night or in the morning.

Mardil continued to insist on being taken, although they still began with Mardil taking Boromir. Boromir’s misgivings did not ebb; he was baffled by Mardil’s demands for roughness during the act. Although he told himself he found it distasteful, each time he gave in to Mardil’s pleas and took his lover as hard as he physically could. Which, as he was growing older and stronger, was too hard, in his opinion.

He found that he could make Mardil climax by his thrusts alone, and for a time this overcame his resistance, but after four months had passed, he was increasingly uneasy.

Mardil had changed, and Boromir didn’t like the change. Mardil was free with his money, and he seemed to have plenty of it, so their circle of friends expanded, and he did not find pleasure in that, either. Their meetings were hectic and unsatisfying, too many people competing for attention from the Shining Ones.

He knew how they appeared to people: the young lord who idolized the older heroic soldier. Their friendship was well known now; the two beautiful warriors who were always side by side. What legends were made of, Boromir thought gloomily. Had the legends been as discontented as he was?

Dissatisfied, Boromir looked around the mess. His friends filled two large tables. They were calling for more ale, their day of soldiering at an end. Boromir planned to spend a quiet evening with Faramir, eating dinner in their rooms. He watched two men join them, noting that with their clean shaven faces and long hair, not to mention their striking looks, the two would fit right in.

One of the men, the taller one, looked him in the eye. He froze. Bottom and Top. Those were the absurd names he had given to the men in his mind, never having learned their real ones. It was Bottom who had kissed him, four years ago . The men walked to him unhurriedly. For once, he was sitting next to Mardil. He tried not to do it often, but tonight he had, curse his luck!

“The Shining Ones,” Top murmured. “My lord Boromir. Mardil.” Mardil smiled pleasantly and invited them to sit. Boromir’s stomach clenched as the two men sat next to him and Mardil. Their recognition of him was obvious. They had probably known who he was for years; there were not many young men out of uniform who had access to the armoury and barracks. He tried to meet their gaze directly, and his heart sank when he saw that Top was eyeing Mardil with a predatory look. Bottom was looking at Boromir in the same manner.

“Perhaps, Mardil, you do not recognize us? We are of your company in Osgiliath.” Mardil gave a cry of welcome, and the three were quickly engrossed in a conversation about their fellow soldiers and the garrison of Osgiliath. It was a topic Boromir was deeply interested in, but he said nothing. He listened, distracted, as they introduced themselves, and found that Top was named Galdor, and Bottom, Wulf. Under the table, Wulf’s hand slid onto his thigh. Boromir stood and bowed to the company.

“I will be dining with my family this evening. Please excuse me.”

Mardil rose and followed him to the door. “Will you come later?”

Boromir eyed Galdor, whose gaze had followed Mardil hungrily. “You can count on it,” he said grimly.

***

The roasted fowl was tasteless in Faramir’s mouth. Boromir’s mind was so clearly elsewhere that Faramir was crushed. The last five months, with Boromir around almost constantly, had ended his loneliness. He was happier than he had been for years.

Faramir took a sip of his heavily watered wine and stared at the table top as gloomily as his brother. “Boromir, if you need to leave, please do not delay it on my account.”

Boromir turned to him, his expression distant. Suddenly, his face relaxed into a smile. “I’m sorry, I met up with some . . . old friends today and they had unpleasant news for me.”

Faramir put a hand on top of Boromir’s reassuringly, then snatched it away when his brother frowned at their joined hands. Now what, Faramir thought, his frustration building. “Please, Boromir. Go, if you must.”

Boromir looked at Faramir with the guilty expression Faramir had noticed frequently. _Am I that wearisome to him_ , Faramir wondered. _I do not understand him: one moment he is as loving and kind as always; the next, he treats me as if my touch was poison._

“You are right, brother. I should go. I am afraid I have been poor company this evening.” Boromir stood and kissed Faramir on the brow, greatly relieving his younger brother with the familiar caress.

***

Boromir rode towards Mardil’s home. His mood was dark. Earlier in the week, he and Mardil had had a troubling exchange. Mardil had met him in the city, and the first words out of his mouth were shrill. “Who was the young man I saw you with on the city walls this morning?”

Boromir was baffled, then laughed. “That was my brother. Faramir.”

“The delectable Faramir.” Mardil’s tone was biting. “Now that I have seen him, I understand why he is so much on your mind. A pleasing appearance.”

Boromir frowned. “He’s my brother.”

“And do you always embrace and kiss your brother when you part? Even if your parting is for the space of no more than an hour?”

Boromir got angry. “He’s just a boy.” _Faramir has always been affectionate towards me; there is nothing wrong with it!_

“I beg your pardon. Is he not soon to be fifteen?” Mardil did not need to spell it out; Boromir had been sixteen when he became Mardil’s lover.

Boromir said nothing more. Mardil’s jealousy was so unreasonable, so . . . grotesque. He had noted Mardil’s jealousy soon after they met; the first instance of it was when he had inserted himself into Boromir’s conversation with Iorlas. If Boromir was speaking to a fair young man, he could count on Mardil turning up at his side in short order. But Mardil never made accusations, so Boromir had let it alone, even found it endearing.

As he tethered his horse outside the farmhouse, he reflected that Galdor and Wulf were complications he did not need.

He knocked on the door and did not get an answer. Cautiously, he opened it. There was no light in the room except for a dim red glow from the fireplace. Panic seized him. He imagined Mardil caught by Galdor and Wulf on the dark road home . . .

“Mardil,” he said sharply. The word reverberated in the apparently empty room. Then he smelled it: brandy or another strong spirit. He looked behind the screen and Mardil was there, partially unclad, stretched out on the bed. He was awake and his eyes glittered.

“Ah. You have finally torn yourself from Faramir’s side.”

“I was worried. I need to speak to you. About Galdor and Wulf. The two men we met tonight.”

“Of something other than Wulf pawing at you?”

“Yes. Something other than that.” He saw he finally had Mardil’s interest. Mardil rose from the bed. Boromir realized his lover was not clothed at all; he had mistaken shadows cast by the fire for garments. Mardil stood directly in front of him. He was still taller than Boromir by two inches, but Boromir was now the more powerful man, his chest broader and his muscles stronger. When they had met, Mardil had outweighed him by thirty pounds, but no more.

Several emotions warred in Boromir: relief that Mardil was safe; anger at his jibe about Faramir; wariness of his drunkenness. He took hold of Mardil’s upper arms and leaned forward to kiss him. Mardil pulled back. “You smell of your brother.”

Boromir pushed Mardil onto the bed. Anger seethed in him. He knew some of the anger was at himself for wanting his brother, something he could never act on. And Mardil was accusing him . . . as if he would ever hurt his brother . . . his shining one. He pushed and pulled at Mardil until the older man was on his knees. Mardil was unsteady because of the spirits he had drunk, and Boromir’s superior strength made it even easier. Boromir pulled down the front of his breeches. At some point, he had gotten hard. He didn’t want to think about when.

Mardil did not resist. Boromir hastily slicked oil on himself, then pushed in all the way, burying himself in Mardil’s body. He heard Mardil cry out, muffled by the bed, and then he pounded Mardil as hard as he could, letting his anger drive him. He groaned when his release came swiftly, leaning forward over Mardil’s body and forcing it down, trapping it beneath him. Mardil was shaking, and Boromir roughly turned him over. Tears trickled from Mardil’s eyes, a strange sight on that strong face. Mardil was also smiling, and that was stranger.

“That was good, my love,” Mardil said seductively. “I want you to use me like that. It keeps you mine.”

Boromir shook his head. “It does not. I do not want it.” He nearly wept, learning the appalling reason for the rough usage Mardil demanded. His lover did not understand him at all if he thought such a thing.

“You don’t want it with me, yes, but you want it. From your brother.”

Boromir stood. All of his pity vanished. He walked to the washbasin and cleaned himself hastily, then laced his breeches. His jaw clenched as he fought to keep silent. He should leave without a word. His control broke. “How dare you say that!”

Mardil’s tears were still streaming, and he still smiled. “My love. You have called his name when you take me. And when you clutch at me, dreaming, in the middle of the night.”

“I have never touched him. Not that way. My brother is my life.”

“Then what does that make me, my love?”

“I do not know!” Boromir spat out the words and left, banging the door. He untied his horse’s reins and prepared to mount her. Then he heard a brisk clip-clop on the country lane.

He went back inside and lit a lantern. “Get dressed,” he said brusquely to Mardil. “Someone’s coming.”

***

Boromir was not surprised to see Galdor and Wulf at the door. The two men pushed him aside and entered the house. Mardil, sitting up on the bed, had pulled on breeches and a loose shirt.

Boromir seethed. The tension of the evening had exhausted him, and his nerves were on the point of shattering. “What are you doing here?” he said in a deadly voice. The two men ignored him.

“You are keeping you lover well, Mardil,” Galdor said. Boromir was shocked to see Mardil turn away from the men in fear. He had never seen Mardil back down from anything.

Galdor addressed Boromir. “We made an arrangement with your lover, my lord. Our silence for his money.”

“Get out,” Boromir rasped.

“Boromir!” Mardil’s tone was desperate. Boromir went to his lover and held him, shaking with rage. His fight with Mardil was forgotten as anger at the two blackguards swept through him. How dare they threaten harm to his lover! He imagined Galdor and Wulf dead, hacked with his sword, bleeding on the hearth . . .

“Do as they say,” Mardil whispered. “Please.”

Boromir stepped away from him to the mantel. “How much?” Boromir asked. “How much do you want?”

“Fifty silver pennies.” Galdor spoke.

Boromir stared, aghast. “Mardil doesn’t have that.”

“He does.”

Boromir turned to look at Mardil, who mutely nodded his head. Boromir searched the mantel for the dark blue box where he knew Mardil kept his valuables. He opened it and saw silver. Gold. Unset jewels. Galdor and Wulf looked over his shoulder, then Wulf took the box from him.

“We will take it all, Mardil,” Wulf said. Mardil nodded his head, staring at the floor.

“No!” Boromir shouted.

Mardil rose from the bed and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “You must,” he hissed. “Let them take it.”

“Too late, Mardil. Your lover has called off the deal we made. So we will take the other.” Galdor spoke tonelessly. “Or perhaps we will take both.”

Boromir watched, fear shooting through him, as Mardil walked shakily to the bed and sat down. “May I speak to Boromir alone?” Mardil asked. Galdor and Wulf looked at each other, then stepped outside the house without a word.

“Mardil, what are you doing? Do not give them your money! They will never stop, once you have paid them!”

“Boromir, for the gods sake, listen to me.” Mardil’s words tumbled out, trampling upon each other. “I had to beg them to take the money. They wanted you. You were the price they asked.”

Boromir clenched his fists. “Let them try.”

His body went cold when Mardil spoke. “No! You must do what they say. Or they’ll hurt Faramir.”

***

Boromir sat down on the bed. The anger and rage drained from him. He watched Mardil pull himself together, picking up a corner of a blanket to wipe his face, raking his fingers through his hair. “They asked for both of us. But I think it’s really you they want.”

“I know them.” Boromir said. His voice was surprisingly steady. Quickly he explained to Mardil his encounter with the men in the barracks years earlier.

Mardil tried to smile. “And here I thought I had given the game away. I couldn’t imagine what I had done wrong.”

“Perhaps never touching a woman?” Boromir suggested wryly. “That may have led to a few rumors.” A hot flash of love ran through Boromir: Mardil would sacrifice his entire fortune to protect Faramir.

Belatedly, he realized that Mardil’s rude treatment of him that evening had been meant to drive him away before Galdor and Wulf arrived. “Next time you want me out of here, my love, put on some clothes,” Boromir whispered.

Mardil touched his cheek and smiled. “I couldn’t make up my mind if I wanted you gone . . . or not.”

“Where did the money come from, Mardil?” Boromir had to ask.

Mardil shook his head. “Not now. Let me say only that my uncle was not the most honest of men. There is no time for me to explain further. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Boromir kissed him lightly on the lips.

***

Galdor and Wulf wasted no time when they returned. Wulf seized Boromir in his arms and kissed him, forcing his mouth open using the simple technique of pinching his nose shut. Boromir opened his mouth and let the strange tongue in. He could sense Galdor behind him, moving to the bed, where Mardil sat.

Wulf pushed Boromir to the rug in front of the fire and issued an order. “Take off your clothes.”

Boromir stripped quickly. He could see the bed from where he stood. Galdor was pulling down Mardil’s breeches. He saw the tall man pause, touch Mardil’s thighs, and give a short laugh. “Someone has been at you already, I see.”

Galdor turned to look at Boromir. “Somehow, I thought it would be the other way around, that you would be the wench.”

“I am,” Boromir said. His mind was working furiously. What could he do to ameliorate the humiliation coming? Drive a wedge between the men, somehow? Refuse to be cowed? When Mardil had told him of the threat to Faramir, he had known instantly that he would submit. He could not keep Faramir safe from the two men forever unless he was willing to kill Galdor and Wulf, and he could not do it, not in cold blood.

His thoughts were interrupted by Wulf, who had stripped himself, and was pressing his lips against Boromir’s unresponsive mouth.

“Try harder,” Wulf said warningly. Boromir kissed him back in the manner the man seemed to want. He had never kissed anyone but Mardil, so Wulf’s mouth felt strange on his. Wulf was a forceful kisser, while Mardil was a sensual one.

The rest of Wulf he would have found beautiful in other circumstances. Wulf was perfect, with wide shoulders, a narrow waist and hips, and a flat belly that rippled with muscle. To Boromir, the old scars on Wulf’s body emphasized his beauty instead of detracting from it.

His face was as handsome as Boromir’s long ago fantasies had made it. His long dark hair was loose, and it tickled Boromir’s shoulders. An idea entered Boromir’s mind.

“I have always wanted this.” Boromir spoke softly. Wulf stopped the kiss and looked at him suspiciously. “After I saw you in the barracks, I dreamed of you kissing me. And other things.”

Wulf looked at him curiously, his hands gently stroking Boromir’s back. “Lie down,” he said. Boromir lay on the carpet before the fire, and Wulf lay on top of him.

“This is what I dreamed of, your hair touching my shoulders. The day you kissed me, I made myself come, thinking of you.” Boromir’s voice was husky with suppressed anger. “I took a candle, and pushed it into myself, and pretended it was you taking me.”

Wulf made a low growl. Boromir heard a soft cry from Mardil on the bed, and his stomach clenched.

“I have to admit that after I met Mardil, I thought of you less often. But, in my fantasies, at least, you were the first to take me.” Boromir lifted his hips, pressing into Wulf, who was fully erect.

Wulf smiled, almost a pleasant smile. “Now that you are fully a man, you are more to my taste, lovely Boromir. I’m sorry I could not oblige you then.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” Boromir whispered, kissing Wulf as passionately as he could. To his surprise, Wulf pulled away from him and sat up.

“Galdor. I need help.” Boromir heard another soft cry from Mardil. It was abruptly cut off, and then Galdor stood over them, naked and erect. Although Boromir was well-endowed, Galdor’s cock was the largest Boromir had ever seen, and he could not look away from it.

Wulf laughed at his expression, and said to Galdor, “I want you to hold him. I don’t trust him.”

“Gladly.” Galdor sat on the rug, spreading his legs, pulling Boromir between his thighs until Boromir’s back rested against his chest. Galdor’s erection pressed into Boromir’s spine.

“Have no fear,” the tall man whispered in Boromir’s ear. He kissed the back of Boromir’s neck, then sucked on his neck and licked it. Boromir squirmed. The back of his neck was extremely sensitive. Mardil could drive him into a frenzy simply by breathing on it. Boromir’s cock hardened as Galdor caressed his neck with his teeth and tongue.

Wulf rose and rummaged by the bed, returning with the oil. Boromir could no longer see the bed; Galdor blocked his view.

Wulf knelt in front of him and said, “Bend your knees.” Boromir tensed as he realized what they were planning. He bent his knees and Galdor hooked his arms under them and pulled Boromir’s legs up until Boromir’s knees touched his chest. Boromir’s buttocks were in the air, exposed. A sound escaped him when Wulf licked his cock, then his balls. Galdor’s breath was on his neck.

“Have no fear,” the man whispered again in his ear. “We want you. We will not hurt you, I promise.” Boromir gasped when Wulf licked his opening.

Boromir closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and Galdor kissed him. Galdor’s mouth was sweet and wet. Boromir opened his mouth and sucked on Galdor’s tongue when it entered his mouth. He bit back a moan when Wulf’s mouth closed on his cock. Galdor broke the kiss and bit his neck gently. Without letting go of his legs, Galdor’s fingers stroked his nipples.

“Yes, that’s good,” Galdor murmured encouragingly in his ear. His teeth nipped the lobe. Boromir was unable to stop from moaning as Wulf pushed one finger in him and sucked harder on his cock. Galdor’s teeth scraped Boromir’s neck until Boromir writhed and cried out. Wulf slid two fingers in him. The fingers curled and he moaned again as they stroked him inside. Galdor chuckled in his ear.

The fingers and mouth disappeared and Wulf’s erection, well oiled, slid in easily. Because of Boromir’s position, no other part of Wulf’s body touched him. Wulf pushed in again and Boromir found that his position also meant Wulf hit his sensitive spot directly with each thrust.

Involuntarily, he cried out. “Please.” He would not say the words. He refused to say them. Galdor bit his neck. “Please,” Boromir moaned. Stop before I beg you not to stop. Wulf’s hand enclosed Boromir’s cock and pumped it as he thrust in hard and fast. Galdor bit his neck nearly hard enough to break the skin. Suddenly Wulf toppled forward, groaning as he came. He let go of Boromir’s cock and kissed him. Boromir cried out when Wulf pulled out of him.

“Please,” Boromir gasped, turning his head to Galdor. Galdor released his legs. Boromir turned over and lay on Galdor, kissing him frantically, the tall man’s erection pressing into his thigh. He rubbed his erection against Galdor’s. Wulf’s come on his thighs made them both slippery.

“Wulf, I’ve changed my mind,” Galdor said shakily. “Please check on Mardil.” Galdor turned Boromir over so he that was on his hands and knees, then moved behind him and covered him with his body. He bit Boromir’s neck while Boromir pushed back, rubbing his buttocks against Galdor’s erection.

“Please,” Boromir begged. He could not keep the pleading from his voice any longer.

“Don’t worry,” Galdor panted. “I’m going to take you.” Boromir felt the massive erection pushing into him, and he cried out at the sharp pain. Wulf’s slippery come was not enough to ease the way.

Galdor stopped and applied oil to himself, then moved in again, slowly but inexorably. Boromir groaned and pushed back against him. Galdor’s voice hummed in his ear. “Let me take you. Give it to me.” The tall man moved in and out slowly and Boromir cried out in pleasure.

“Spread your legs wider,” Galdor commanded. Boromir spread his legs as far as possible.

“Lift up your hips.” Boromir raised his buttocks as high as he could.

“Now give it to me. Come for me,” Galdor growled.

Boromir struggled against a wave of dizziness. “Take all of me in,” Galdor demanded. Boromir pushed back against him hard until Galdor’s balls slapped him.

“Oh, yes,” Galdor sighed. He pulled out all the way and thrust back in, burying himself each time. Boromir’s body went rigid with pleasure. Galdor moved up onto his knees and held onto Boromir’s shoulders, forcing his upper body down, keeping him still, the tall man increasing the speed of his thrusts.

“Come for me, Boromir!” he gasped, and thrust even faster. Boromir screamed as he climaxed, his cock untouched; his contracting flesh squeezed Galdor mercilessly, and the tall man groaned and collapsed, the aftershocks of his orgasm shaking them both.

Galdor withdrew from him and turned him onto his back. They kissed fiercely, rolling on the floor. They heard a cough from Wulf.

“Finished yet?” the man said dryly.

“No,” Galdor said, his arms wrapped around Boromir, his teeth on Boromir’s throat. Boromir was boneless in his arms. He clung to Galdor and kissed whatever part of the tall man was near: his nose, his chin, his neck.

“Dear gods, that was amazing,” he muttered into Galdor’s chest.

Abruptly Boromir stiffened. “Mardil!”

Galdor laughed. “I’m afraid he’s been tortured far more than we planned. I tied him up and he’s had to listen to your beautiful moans. I assure you he is quite comfortable.” He released Boromir, who stood shakily and walked over to the bed.

Mardil was naked, securely tied and gagged. His cock was hard and his eyes were fierce. Boromir removed the gag and bent to kiss him. “You whore,” Mardil said in a low, tight voice. Before Boromir could react, Galdor pushed him away and knelt next to Mardil.

“I’m sorry I left you unfinished, Mardil. Your beautiful lover distracted me.” Galdor stroked Mardil’s cock. “I’ll finish you, if you take back what you said. I assure you Boromir had no choice in the matter. I held him quite securely.”

“Untie me.”

“Of course,” Galdor said softly. He cut the bonds quickly with a knife and lay on top of Mardil.

“No,” Mardil whispered. “I want him to take me.” He stared at Boromir hungrily.

Galdor laughed. “How could he, Mardil? I nearly killed him. Let him rest for a few hours . . . ”

Galdor had not finished his sentence when Boromir pushed him aside and lay on Mardil. The sight of Mardil bound and aroused had made Boromir rock hard. Boromir rubbed his erection against Mardil’s leg.

“You’re forgetting he’s only nineteen,” Mardil muttered. Galdor laughed loudly. Wulf chuckled.

“Galdor,” Boromir said. “I want you to hold him for me.” Galdor beamed and got on the bed. Wulf joined him, and they nestled Mardil between them. Then they reached down and pulled up Mardil’s legs, Galdor lifting his right and Wulf lifting his left. Mardil groaned as his buttocks were exposed, his knees pulled up to his chest. He turned his face first to Galdor, then to Wulf, kissing them both. Boromir gently licked Mardil’s straining cock, spending ample time on his thighs, belly, and balls.

“Stop torturing me,” Mardil gasped. “Take me!” Boromir obliged, sinking into his lover in one thrust. Mardil cried out loudly. Boromir clasped Mardil’s erection in his hand and pumped hard, in time with his thrusts. Within moments Mardil erupted, twisting in the men’s grip, his come hitting Boromir in the face and chest. Boromir groaned as Mardil’s contractions milked his cock; dear gods, he was going to come . . .

‘What happened?” he whispered. He was lying on the bed, and Mardil was cradling his head.

Galdor wiped Boromir’s face with a damp cloth. “You fainted. Luckily you came first, or Mardil might have killed us all.”

Wulf bent over him and kissed him gently. “It was true, wasn’t it. What you told me about the candle.” Boromir nodded. Wulf grinned and became beautiful.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

The next day, Boromir convinced the captains to drop the plan to honor Mardil by resorting to a falsehood: that Mardil, because of his great friendship with Boromir, would refuse it, fearing accusations of favoritism. To his great relief, the captains believed him.

Galdor reported to him that the fire had successfully destroyed the farmhouse, and that the outlying buildings had not been harmed. Boromir sent a message to Mardil about the fire, referring to it as an unfortunate accident, and waited for the reply.

He was uncertain as to what his next move should be. He could not send a message to Mardil telling his former lover that he despised him and wished him dead. The only man he would trust with such a message was Galdor, and Galdor could not leave his post. He would have to wait until Mardil returned, and that was still a month or more away. What he would do then, he did not know.

He walked to his rooms, already half asleep. It was late in the evening, for he had met with Denethor and the captains after the evening meal. He started, seeing the body on his bed. Iorlas?

Hurriedly, he secured the door, and his heart jumped when he saw it was Faramir, dressed in nightclothes. His brother was lying on top of the blankets. The air was chill in the room, so Boromir tugged a blanket over him.

Faramir opened his eyes, his gaze unfocused. “I came to say goodnight. I got tired.”

Boromir playfully tousled his hair. Heat rose from Faramir’s scalp. He touched Faramir’s cheek. It was burning.

“Faramir! You’re sick!”

“That must be why my head aches.” Faramir grimaced when Boromir sat on the bed, jostling him. Boromir ran to the Houses of Healing.

***

The Warden looked Faramir over carefully, then drew Boromir aside. “He must be watched closely. Come fetch me if you see anything unusual on his skin. Check him for rashes or spots every two hours.” Boromir nodded.

“May we leave him where he is?” the Warden asked. “I would prefer to keep him away from my other charges.”

“Yes, I’ll take his room,” Boromir replied quickly.

The Warden shook his head. “I have a mind to keep you out of here, and certainly out of his room. I do not wish this to spread.”

Boromir overrode the Warden’s objections. The Warden settled for sending a woman from the Houses of Healing, who aided him in tending Faramir that night. The fever worsened and Faramir groaned and tossed in his sleep. Every two hours, Boromir and the woman undressed Faramir and examined his flushed body. After doing this twice, they left him naked, changing the sweat soaked sheets when needed. Boromir lifted Faramir as gently as he could while the woman freshened the bed; his lightest touch caused Faramir agony.

On the third day, the fever abated, and Faramir was alert. Boromir sent the woman back to the Houses of Healing.

Faramir’s body still ached, and his discomfort was so extreme, Boromir fetched the Warden again.

“Does this hurt?” the Warden asked, rubbing a finger down Faramir’s arm.

“Ow!”

The Warden laughed. “The pain will ease with time; it is an effect of the fever. Foul humors build in the body. The only way to relieve the pain is to massage the muscles.” He rubbed Faramir’s arm lightly, making him squirm.

The Warden turned to Boromir. “Massage the muscles in the direction of his heart. Two or three times a day ought to do it. He will feel much better tomorrow.”

The Warden left. Faramir looked at his brother with alarm. “Don’t touch me!”

Boromir laughed. “I must do as the Warden orders!” He left Faramir alone for the moment, bringing him food and looming over his brother while he ate.

Faramir sighed. “Don’t you have something else to do? Such as shave?”

Boromir rubbed his bristly chin. “I’m growing a beard,” he said, surprising himself. “And I’m going to cut my hair. Shoulder length.”

Faramir smiled. “I like the way you look with a beard. And a soldier shouldn’t have long hair; it gives the enemy something to hold onto.”

Boromir kissed his forehead. “I’ll be back soon to give you your massage,” he threatened, and chuckled at Faramir’s cry of woe.

***

Boromir returned far later than he had planned. The work of the prior two days had descended on him. It was late in the evening when he returned to his rooms. Faramir was asleep and looked healthier than he had that morning. Boromir put wood on the fire until it was blazing hot. He shed clothing until he had on nothing but breeches and his leather shirt.

He sat on the bed next to Faramir and stroked his shoulder gently.

“Ow,” Faramir said, waking. He tried to stretch, then grimaced. Boromir bent over him and stroked his hair. “Even my hair hurts,” Faramir said.

Boromir laughed and brought a washbasin and a soft towel to the bed. He pulled off Faramir’s nightshirt and wiped him down briskly. Faramir gave an occasional gasp of pain. Boromir had swabbed down his brother several times while the healer had been with him, helping him to pretend immunity to the sight in front of him.

Faramir rolled over and Boromir held his breath as he rubbed the towel over Faramir’s buttocks.

“Boromir, did the woman who was here do this?”

Boromir chuckled. “Many times, brother. By now she knows you better than you know yourself.”

“If I’m ever sick again, will you take care of me? I don’t want someone I don’t know touching me like this.”

Boromir did not reply, losing his train of thought as he looked at the rosy skin on the bed. He stood and helped Faramir into a clean nightshirt. “I’m putting you on a chair. I need to change the sheets.”

Boromir lifted Faramir and carried him to a chair while Faramir rolled his eyes. “I can walk, Boromir.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have to.”

Boromir had the bed ready again swiftly. Faramir insisted on getting back to it on his own. Boromir refrained from saying anything while his brother made slow and obviously painful progress. Before Boromir pulled the coverlets over Faramir, he pulled his brother’s nightshirt off.

“Oh, no.” Faramir said. Boromir covered him with blankets and went back to the fire, adding another log. He took off his shirt as Faramir watched with trepidation.

Boromir laughed and sat on the bed to Faramir’s left. “It’s not going to be as bad as you think. It will hurt a little at first, but the pain should fade quickly.” He uncovered Faramir’s arms and chest and rubbed Faramir’s left arm in long strokes, upwards from the wrist. His roughened hands scraped Faramir’s skin.

Faramir grunted. “You’re right. It isn’t as bad as I thought. It’s worse!’

Boromir looked guiltily at the red marks he had left on Faramir’s flesh. A faint blush mottled his throat as he reached under the bed, felt for a small bottle, opened it, and poured oil into his hands. He rubbed his hands together to warm the oil, then spread it on Faramir’s left arm. Boromir’s hands glided smoothly and he could apply more pressure.

Faramir relaxed and closed his eyes. “That’s better,” he murmured.

Boromir did not say a word as he oiled Faramir’s arms, chest, stomach, and shoulders. He rubbed hard, Faramir twitching occasionally. After twenty minutes, Faramir opened his eyes and admitted, “It’s helping. It doesn’t hurt as much.”

Boromir smiled and continued with his work. Peace filled him as he rubbed Faramir’s body. He pushed down on Faramir’s pectoral muscles, the nipples hardening under his hands. Using the heels of his hands, he pressed in a circular motion, his palms caressing the nipples over and over . . .

“This room is getting too hot,” Faramir complained sleepily, his eyes closed. Boromir pulled the blankets off him and oiled his legs, making sweeping strokes from Faramir’s ankles to within an inch of his groin. Faramir relaxed further into the bed, spreading his legs slightly.

“You’re good at this,” Faramir said, not opening his eyes.

“I’ve had practice,” Boromir said. And he had; Mardil had massaged him many times to relieve the pain after days in the saddle, or after a long march. He shivered, remembering the talented hands. He had learned how to do the same for Mardil.

He pressed his hands down, stroking up the inside of Faramir’s thighs. Oh, gods. Faramir’s body moved under his hands, arching into his caress. He saw Faramir’s cock swelling. Boromir hastily pulled the blankets up to Faramir’s waist.

“It’s time for you to turn over,” he said briskly. Faramir rolled over with a contented groan. Boromir oiled his back and exerted more pressure, knowing that this part of the body throve on it. Faramir sighed, then unmistakably moaned.

Boromir stopped. “Did that hurt?”

“No! Do it again!”

Boromir pressed down below Faramir’s shoulder blades and was rewarded with another moan. _This was a very bad idea_ , Boromir thought. _And I am to blame. I knew it would be this bad, I wanted it to be this bad . . ._

He pulled the blankets down, uncovering Faramir completely. He oiled him from his waist to his ankles, then moved to the foot of the bed so he could press down hard on Faramir’s calves. He heard a grunt of pain.

“That’s the worst spot,” Faramir said.

Boromir worked on the backs of his brother’s legs for what seemed like hours, adding more oil as needed. He watched, mesmerized, as his hands traveled over Faramir’s glistening skin. The fire died down and Faramir shone in the dim light.

In the last year, Faramir’s body had changed dramatically. Golden hair covered his arms, legs, and upper chest, and his muscles were well defined under the skin. From what Boromir had seen of his half hard cock, part of him was . . . fully grown. He was beautiful, and threatening to become more beautiful still. Boromir knelt and rubbed his hands from Faramir’s knees to his waist, using the heels of his hands again, sliding his hands over Faramir’s buttocks.

“I might fall asleep,” Faramir muttered. Boromir choked back a laugh, as he felt insanely alert. He had grown hard, and it was starting to hurt, especially when he bent forward from the waist.

He kneaded Faramir’s rump. He could see down into the cleft, where oil had trickled. As he sat back, he let his fingers trail through the cleft, as if by accident. Imperceptibly, Faramir’s hips lifted, and his back arched.

Boromir sat back on his haunches, frightened by his impulsive, intimate caress of his brother. He longed to do it again. He had to get out of the room. Faramir turned his upper body, looking at Boromir over his shoulder. His eyes were half closed. For a moment, Boromir was held by his gaze. Then he pulled the blankets up to Faramir’s shoulders and let out a ragged sigh.

“You must be tired,” Faramir said. His voice was drowsy, like the voice of a lover. Boromir could not bear to hear it.

“I’m fine,” he said. Faramir looked at him curiously, alerted by Boromir’s odd tone of voice. Boromir resolved not to speak again.

Faramir turned over completely onto his back and Boromir arranged the blankets, pulling them up to Faramir’s chin. He bent to kiss Faramir’s forehead. Faramir wrapped his arms around Boromir’s neck, hugging him.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I love you, Boromir.”

Boromir did not speak; his voice could not be trusted. Confusion appeared on Faramir’s face.

“I love you, my shining one,” Boromir said. He stood and left the room at a run.

He entered Faramir’s room and closed and secured the door. He climbed onto Faramir’s bed, gathering the bedclothes that smelled of his brother in his arms. Lying face down on the pile, he undid his breeches and stroked himself swiftly, his hands still covered with oil. After his orgasm shuddered through him, he resolved to leave Minas Tirith as soon as possible.

***

**June 2999 T.A.**

Boromir stepped onto the quay at Harlond, his spirits soaring. For ten months, he had traveled through South Gondor, the most populous and fertile region of the realm. But the location of the seat of the kingdom was dictated by the land’s greatest enemy, not its greatest strengths. The Tower of Guard was the true center. From the quay, he could see the lights of Minas Tirith twinkling in the darkness, five miles distant across the plain.

He made arrangements to have his luggage taken by wagon to the city; he was going to walk, even though it was night. A full moon provided ample light. He had been aboard ship for three weeks, and his legs were itching to move. As he prepared to leave, an errand-rider rode up to the docks. Boromir paid him no heed until he saw the captain pointing at him, and the errand-rider urging his horse towards Boromir.

The man slid off his horse and handed Boromir a letter. Boromir ripped it open and read the confusing contents. It warned him that Faramir was in danger at an inn near Minas Tirith. He knew the inn well -- it was frequented by soldiers -- and he could not imagine what harm could come to Faramir there. The Clay Pipe was by no means a den of thieves. He called for a horse.

***

He arrived at The Clay Pipe in less than an hour. He could hear many men singing inside. Was it all a cruel joke? He entered the smoky interior, scanning the common room for Faramir, but there was no sign of him. He asked the innkeeper if he had seen a young man there that evening. The young man would stand out as he would not have been dressed as a soldier, Boromir explained.

“Does he look like you, my lord?” the innkeeper asked. Boromir’s breath caught.

“Yes. He’s my brother.”

“Thought so. I saw him go up the stairs there a while back.” The innkeeper gestured to a flight of stairs that led to the inn’s rooms on the first floor. “I noticed him right away because I’ve never seen him in here before.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“No, my lord.”

Boromir went up the stairs quickly and was confronted with a long corridor with many doors. Then he heard behind one his brother’s voice, calling out in pain. He pushed the door open and bounded into the room, ready for a fight.

He stared at the two men on the bed for a long moment before he made sense of it. Mardil, his former lover, was naked on the bed, thrusting into an equally naked young man below him. The young man was someone Boromir had never seen before. Dear gods. It was Faramir, much changed, as tall as Boromir. And Mardil was taking him from behind.

Mardil pulled away from Faramir, who did not respond; he seemed stunned as he knelt on the bed. Mardil looked at Boromir, challenge in his eyes. He sat back naked and wiped himself on a shirt. His cock was still hard.

“You!” Boromir bellowed.  
  
“I’m sorry, but your brother couldn’t keep his hands off of me.” Mardil’s face burned with triumph.

“You bastard,” Boromir hissed. Icy rage filled him. He wanted to murder the man in front of him. He forced himself to think only of the most important thing: getting Faramir out of there.

Faramir was on the bed still, hiding his nakedness under a blanket. He stared at Boromir with horror in his eyes. Gently, Boromir told him to get dressed, watching Faramir anxiously as he pulled on his clothing. His brother moved slowly, all the life gone from him.

“I was wrong about you. Your brother was sweetly untried.” Mardil’s voice was the cruelest sound Boromir had ever heard. Boromir pushed Faramir out of the room and slammed the door behind them.

He helped Faramir onto his horse and they rode home to Minas Tirith, not speaking.

Boromir’s thoughts were chaotic. He had not confronted Mardil after learning of his lover’s crimes, as he had discovered, shortly before he left for the south, that Mardil had returned from Rohan and was living at an inn near Minas Tirith.

His lover was back and had not told him. So Mardil knew, somehow, that Boromir had discovered the truth about him.

Boromir cursed himself for not bracing Mardil before his departure. He should have driven the man away. Threatened his life. Killed him.

He followed Faramir to his rooms. A hot flush swept over Boromir as he remembered how hard Mardil had been pounding into Faramir. Had Faramir been hurt?

“Are you . . . all right? You are not hurt?” Boromir stared at Faramir anxiously.

“No. Not hurt,” Faramir said. He did not look Boromir in the eye.

“Get into bed,” Boromir said. “You are sure you are not hurt?”

Faramir shook his head, undressed quickly, and got under the blankets. Boromir sat next to him on the bed.

“You know him.” Faramir said. His voice was despairing.

“Yes,” Boromir said. He owed Faramir the truth. “He was my lover, once.”

Faramir closed his eyes. “He picked me to hurt you,” Faramir said. He blinked rapidly.

“That does seem to be the case,” Boromir said. _How much he has hurt me, you will never know._ He brushed Faramir’s hair back with his hand. Faramir shuddered.

Fear rose in Boromir, and he asked yet again, “You are not hurt?”

Faramir whispered, “No.”

“Perhaps he didn’t do it to hurt me. You are beautiful, you know.” Boromir’s heart broke. His brother had been touched by that filth . . . “You have changed in the last year.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” Faramir said quickly.

Boromir smiled, fighting tears. Faramir’s trust in him was absolute, and his loyalty was unbreakable. He bent to kiss Faramir’s forehead, his shoulder length hair falling on Faramir’s face. Faramir kissed his mouth instead.

Boromir pulled back, guilt inundating him. Faramir did not hold what had happened against him. If he knew . . .

“It’s my fault,” Boromir whispered. “I talked of you, to him. He knew what you meant to me.”

“Do you like men?” Faramir blurted.

Boromir laughed sorrowfully. Of all the hard questions Faramir had asked him over the years, this would have been the hardest; no longer. “I guess I do. At first it was playing, wrestling bouts getting out of hand.” He paused. “I met Mardil when I was your age. He was thirty, and I worshipped him. He was my first lover. When he was hurt, and could no longer fight, I loved him even more. I admired his bravery. He went on as if nothing had happened.”

“Why did it end?” Faramir asked.

Boromir could not reveal Mardil’s villainy. For Faramir to know what had touched him . . . Let him think it was a lovers’ quarrel.

“There are some people who cannot share love. They have so little of it in their hearts, they cannot conceive of loving more than one person. Mardil wanted all of my love. He was jealous, even of you.”

Boromir continued. “Only later did I question why a man of thirty would be interested in a boy of sixteen. I think he lost interest in me as I grew older. Now I’m certain of it.”

“How could he be jealous of me?” Faramir whispered. Boromir was shocked by the guilt on Faramir’s face, and reassuringly took his brother by the shoulders.

“Don’t try to understand such a man. He was convinced that I . . . wanted you, in that way . . . simply because I love you, talk of you all the time.” Dear gods, he had said it.

Faramir shivered. Panic overwhelmed Boromir. Mardil had him in a trap. If he explained everything to Faramir, his brother would recoil from him, perhaps forever. If he did not explain everything, Faramir would be assailed by doubt that would eat away at his trust of Boromir.

Boromir shook Faramir gently. “Please, do not let that man distress you. He was wicked, is wicked, I have no doubt of it now.” _No doubt whatsoever!_

Nervously, he tried to put into words the thoughts he had had over the last year: Mardil had loved him when he was young and easily led; the older Boromir became, the greater Mardil’s insecurity.

Faramir pushed his blankets off. Anxiously, Boromir looked over Faramir’s nude body for blood, bruises, bites . . .

“He didn’t hurt me,” Faramir whispered. “I liked it.”

Boromir was stunned. He turned his head away.

“Boromir.” His brother’s voice was insistent. “Look at me.”

Boromir looked at him, but did not look at him. His brother was lying next to him, naked. The promise of greater beauty Boromir had seen ten months earlier had been fulfilled. Boromir’s mouth went dry as he realized Faramir’s cock was hard. He kept his eyes on Faramir’s face.

“I guess I like men, too,” Faramir said softly.

Boromir trembled. His hands jerked uncontrollably. Faramir sat up and embraced him. Boromir held his breath in terror. _Dear gods, make him stop touching me._

Faramir pressed soft lips against his mouth. Boromir kept his mouth closed as the lips opened on his.

“Just kiss me good night. What’s wrong with that?” Faramir whispered.

A measure of relief filled Boromir. His brother was not trying to seduce him. He was merely being affectionate, as always. “Nothing . . . ” Boromir began. Faramir thrust his tongue into Boromir’s opened mouth.

When Faramir’s tongue touched his, Boromir lost control. He kissed Faramir fiercely, his arms crushing his brother’s naked body against his chest. Faramir’s hand, trapped between them, sought out Boromir’s erection. He moaned into Faramir’s mouth as Faramir’s hand rubbed him through his breeches. He slid his hands up Faramir’s naked chest and at long last touched the enticing nipples. They hardened instantly and Faramir gasped with pleasure. Boromir squeezed them, twisted them, Faramir’s gasps inflaming him. The tip of Faramir’s cock brushed the underside of his arm.

So close. All he had to do was pull down his breeches and take Faramir. Faramir’s body arched, his head falling back. Boromir opened his mouth to bite the soft skin of Faramir’s throat.

And found himself standing instead. Backing away. He would not do this to Faramir. He could not. All these years, he had trusted that Faramir, through his innocence, would be safe from his lust. But Faramir was no longer innocent. He wanted Boromir to take him as Mardil had: Mardil, who looked so much like Boromir.

Boromir’s illusions fell apart. Faramir wanted him, had perhaps wanted him as long as Boromir had desired him. Had he been responding to Faramir’s desire all these years? There was nothing left to keep Faramir safe from him, nothing but his own will.

“Don’t touch me,” Boromir begged. He took a last desperate look at Faramir’s naked body, the arms reaching for him, Faramir’s imploring face. He left the room.

***

**3001 T.A.**

A bottle of wine under each arm, Boromir strolled down to the second level of Minas Tirith. Earlier in the day, he had been invited to dinner by Iorlas, a Guard of the Tower who was an old friend.

Iorlas lived with his brother Beregond and his brother’s wife; he was temporarily alone as the couple had journeyed to Lossarnach to visit relatives. When he had invited Boromir home for dinner, Iorlas pointed out the absence of his family casually, his nonchalance undermined by mentioning it three times during their ten minute conversation.

Boromir accepted, then asked if he could bring a friend with him. With false cheer, Iorlas said he’d be honored to entertain any friend of Boromir.

Iorlas was too gentle and courteous for his own good, Boromir thought, feeling briefly guilty for imposing on Iorlas. He shrugged it off; the guilt was outweighed by his desire to invite Galdor to come with him.

Both Iorlas and Galdor were Guards of the Tower, yet in different companies, so they did not know each other well. Galdor had not been born in Minas Tirith, so he was treated as an outsider by the elite group. Not that they didn’t respect him; they had to. It was impossible not to respect a six foot, four inch warrior with black hair, grey eyes, and some of the sweetest lips that Boromir had ever kissed . . .

Boromir tried to think of something other than Galdor’s kisses. Iorlas was what Galdor needed. It had been nearly four years since Wulf, Galdor’s lover, had been killed in Osgiliath. As far as Boromir knew, Galdor had not shown a glimmer of interest in anyone, and Boromir was worried about him. The tall man had closed in on himself.

As for Iorlas, it was easy to see what he wanted: Boromir. But Boromir could not give Iorlas the devotion he deserved. _I have given my heart already. The hopelessness of it does not release me._

Could Galdor learn to love Iorlas? Boromir didn’t know, but he intended to find out that evening. He knew that Iorlas liked masterful men, and there was none more masterful than Galdor.

As arranged, he met with Galdor at the third gate. He did not want to spend a single moment alone with Iorlas, as that could lead to awkward questions.

He had said little to Galdor of Iorlas, only that he was an old friend and a fellow Guard. Three years earlier, when Iorlas had revealed to Boromir Mardil’s crimes, Boromir had kept from Galdor the name of his source. As far as Galdor knew, Iorlas was a casual acquaintance.

That was the flaw in Boromir’s plan. How was he to inform the two men that they had . . . something in common? The two Guards would treat each other warily.

As he and Galdor passed through the third gate to the second level, Boromir had still not discovered a way to surmount the obstacle. He could tell each man where the other’s interest lay, except it would be a betrayal of his friendship to reveal their secrets unless the two men were drawn to each other.

Iorlas greeted them cordially at the ancient house. It was spacious, with large windows and doorways. Iorlas lived in a separate lodging, below the main house, consisting of a sitting room, bedroom, and washroom. He used the kitchens in the house above, usually dining with his brother Beregond and his brother’s wife.

Boromir opened a bottle of wine and served them all. They would eat in Iorlas’s sitting room. It was as comfortable and airy as the rest of the house. The stone walls were softened with tapestries that had mellowed with age. Fine rugs with intricate patterns, from far Harad, covered the floors. At the back of the house, where the Hill of Guard fell away sharply, there was a view of the Pelennor through the open windows.

He observed Iorlas and Galdor closely when he introduced them. They were polite and nothing more. Boromir thought he saw Iorlas give Galdor a cold look, but that was to be expected towards the guest who had ruined his hopes of dining with Boromir alone!

Iorlas appeared uncommonly well. His brown hair, so dark it was almost black, was loose down his back. He looked like a direct descendent of the Numenorean sailors who had arrived on these shores centuries earlier. This evening, his slender, muscular body was on display in breeches that fit him like a second skin, and his fine linen shirt was unfastened halfway down his chest. Whenever Iorlas moved, Boromir saw a glimpse of tan nipples.

After they had had a glass or two of wine, Iorlas went to the main house to fetch the dinner he had prepared earlier. He asked Boromir to help him carry it, and Boromir, slightly uneasy, followed him. As soon as they entered the kitchens, Iorlas embraced Boromir and whispered in his ear, “I want you inside of me.”

Boromir was shocked. Gentle Iorlas propositioning him? He gasped when Iorlas slipped his hand down the front of Boromir’s breeches and stroked him. With Iorlas breathing on his neck, he was hard instantly. Damn his neck! It seemed everyone knew of his weak spot. A few nibbles or kisses on his neck, and he was lost.

Abruptly, Iorlas let him go. “I’m sorry, Boromir. I’m forgetting my other guest.” Iorlas picked up a tray laden with food and left. Boromir straightened his clothes and lifted the other tray, holding it to hide his arousal as he carried it to Iorlas’s sitting room. Galdor stood and helped them set out the food on the table Iorlas had placed before the fire.

Boromir seized the first chair he came to and sat down, hiding his erection under the table. Iorlas sat next to him and put a hand on Boromir’s thigh.

Dear gods! What had gotten into the man? Boromir darted a glance at the gentle, handsome face of Iorlas, but the man took no notice of him above the table -- only below!

Across the table, Galdor was an impressive sight. His long hair was black with a few strands of silver. His eyes were a dark warm grey. He had a stern face, made handsome by his full, well-cut lips. He was clean shaven, a rarity among the men of Gondor.

Boromir spilt his wine when Iorlas’s hand slid between his legs.

Boromir could not recall afterwards what they had eaten. Throughout the meal, Iorlas touched him under the table. The worst moment came when Iorlas rubbed his thumbnail over the tightening fabric covering Boromir’s erection. Boromir’s eyes half-closed as the thumbnail stroked his balls.

The meal finished, Iorlas put their dishes on trays and asked Boromir to help him return them to the main house. Boromir pictured Iorlas bent over the kitchen table. But there was not enough time for him to satisfy himself. They would have to be back within minutes, or it would look suspicious.

As soon as Boromir set down his tray in the kitchen, Iorlas leaned against him and spoke huskily in his ear: “I can’t decide if I want you in my mouth or in my ass.” Iorlas bit Boromir on the neck and put his hand between Boromir’s legs.

Boromir wrapped his arms around Iorlas and kissed him. “How about both?” he panted. Iorlas’s uncharacteristically dirty language inflamed him. That he hadn’t shared a bed with anyone for four years wasn’t helping, either.

“At the same time?” Iorlas feigned confusion.

“At different times. One after the other.” He grabbed Iorlas’s buttocks and squeezed. Iorlas pulled away.

“Boromir! My guest!” Iorlas left hurriedly, leaving Boromir in a terrible state.

Boromir adjusted his clothes again, and laughed. Iorlas was getting revenge! It had taken Boromir an uncommonly long time to catch on, as he never thought the gentle young man capable of it.

The rest of the night promised to be a painful one, Iorlas teasing him at every opportunity. No doubt he would insist Boromir accompany Galdor home, so that Boromir couldn’t ravish him the moment the tall man stepped out the door.

Boromir looked down at his breeches. His erection could be seen plainly. Too bad. He was through hiding it. He knew something Iorlas didn’t: Galdor would happily watch Boromir take Iorlas right on the sitting room rug.

***

He walked back into the sitting room. Iorlas and Galdor, talking with ease, were sitting on couches by the fire, the table and chairs moved aside.

Boromir stood without speaking until both men looked at him curiously. Iorlas immediately saw his erection and visibly gulped. Galdor gave Boromir a swift, questioning glance.

“Galdor,” Boromir said, “I need your help.” He walked over to Iorlas, grabbed his wrists, and pulled the slender man to his feet. Galdor stood unhurriedly. “Please hold Iorlas’s arms behind his back.”

Galdor stepped behind Iorlas. Boromir watched admiringly as Galdor effortlessly secured Iorlas’s arms, pulling them back so that Iorlas’s chest was thrust out.

“Like that?” Galdor said.

“That’s perfect,” Boromir said. He opened Iorlas’s shirt down to the waist. Iorlas’s eyes were angry, confused, and a little fearful.

As Boromir had hoped, Galdor needed no prompting. The tall man whispered into Iorlas’s ear. “Don’t speak unless you are spoken to, or I’ll gag you.”

Boromir kissed Iorlas thoroughly. Galdor stood behind the slender man, bracing him, so Boromir could press his body against Iorlas as hard as he wished. His fingers drifted to Iorlas’s nipples and stroked them lightly.

For several minutes, he kissed Iorlas while teasing his nipples. Iorlas held up well for a minute or two. Then his hips moved erratically, his breathing roughened, and his nipples hardened into rocks. Boromir felt between Iorlas’s legs. He was as hard as Boromir. They were almost even.

Boromir stepped back and admired his handiwork. Iorlas’s face was flushed, his lips swollen. His nipples were dark red. His hair floated around him in a tangled cloud. His hard cock strained against his tight breeches. He was altogether beautiful in his misery.

Galdor had not wasted his time; he had been rubbing his erection, bulging under his breeches, into Iorlas’s lower back. Boromir held Iorlas’s arms, letting Galdor move away.

“Your turn,” Boromir said to the tall man.

“One moment, Boromir. We can’t hold his arms like this for long without harming him. I suggest we bind his hands instead.” Galdor spoke as calmly if they were discussing the handling of a young pony.

“You’re right. Find something.” Boromir rubbed his erection on Iorlas’s buttocks and kissed the back of Iorlas’s neck while Galdor searched the house.

Iorlas did not speak. Boromir chuckled at the thought of all the foul names Iorlas was undoubtedly calling him silently.

Galdor returned with thin strips of leather, and Boromir held Iorlas while Galdor bound Iorlas’s hands behind his back.

“I didn’t make the bonds too tight,” Galdor said. “He seems a tender thing. See this loop? You can pull him about with it.” He stood in front of Iorlas, reached behind him, and took hold of the loop, using it to pull Iorlas to him. Boromir stood behind Iorlas, pressing the entire length of his body against the slender man.

Boromir watched with glee as Iorlas was overpowered by Galdor’s kiss. Iorlas trembled between them. Galdor pulled Iorlas closer so that one of Iorlas’s thighs was between his legs, then pulled him closer still, so that Iorlas could feel all of the tall man’s erection press into him. Iorlas sagged slightly.

“He may fall over if you keep kissing him like that,” Boromir said.

“Let’s put him to bed.” Without even a grunt, Galdor picked up Iorlas in his arms. He looked sternly into Iorlas’s face. “Remember, one word out of you, and you’ll be gagged.”

Gently, Galdor carried Iorlas into the bedroom and laid him on the bed. Boromir pulled off the bound man’s boots and breeches. Iorlas sighed as the pressure on his erection eased. His cock stood up straight from his body. Galdor and Boromir admired him for a moment, then Galdor stripped Boromir’s clothing off while Boromir tugged off Galdor’s. When they were fully undressed, they turned to look at Iorlas. As Boromir expected, Iorlas’s gaze was firmly on Galdor’s cock. Boromir was well above average size, but Galdor had the largest cock he had ever seen.

“Boromir, I’m getting the feeling that Iorlas has done something to offend you. Perhaps it has something to do with your oddly distracted state during dinner. Has he suffered enough?”

“No.”

Galdor laughed, and knelt in front of Boromir, his mouth swallowing Boromir’s cock. Boromir moaned and put his hands on Galdor’s shoulders. He looked at Iorlas to make sure the man could see them; he could. Then every bit of his concentration was needed to stay on his feet while he was brought to a shuddering climax by Galdor’s lips, tongue, and teeth. Galdor stood and kissed him and for a while Boromir forgot everything. He made a pleading sound when Galdor pulled away.

“Boromir, it is rude for us to ignore our host. Don’t you think he deserves some attention?”

Boromir climbed onto the bed. “Yes. He’s too beautiful to ignore.”

Galdor lay next to Iorlas and stroked his face. “You have not said a word; I am proud of you.” Iorlas stared up at him pleadingly. Galdor put a finger into Iorlas’s mouth; Iorlas closed his eyes and sucked on the finger furiously.

Boromir tugged at Iorlas’s shirt. “We should have taken this off of him before we bound him.” Galdor left the room and came back with a knife. Neatly, he cut the shirt off of Iorlas’s body.

Boromir and Galdor lay down on either side of Iorlas again, Boromir on his right, Galdor on his left. The slender man was shivering, his eyes were closed, and he rocked back and forth slightly, his bound hands underneath him.

“It might be safe to untie him now,” Galdor said. He took Iorlas’s chin in his hand. “Will you behave if we unbind you? Nod for yes, shake your head for no.” Iorlas nodded.

Galdor rolled Iorlas onto his side and cut the bonds, briskly rubbing the man’s arms. As soon as he let go of Iorlas’s arms, the slender man wrapped his arms around Galdor’s neck and tried to kiss him. Galdor grabbed Iorlas’s wrists and held him away.

“You will not do anything unless you are told to do it, or I will bind you again.” Galdor spoke patiently.

Boromir moaned involuntarily, his cock hardening again.

“Galdor, if you continue to speak like that, you may have to bind me, too,” Boromir muttered.

Galdor chuckled. “I would like to thank our host for the supper first, if you do not mind.” He continued to hold Iorlas’s wrists.

Boromir took Iorlas’s right nipple into his mouth, and immediately Galdor sucked on Iorlas’s left nipple. The slender man’s reaction was so vigorous they each put a leg over him to keep him still.

“You are going to have to gag me,” Iorlas panted. “I cannot keep silent any longer.”

“If you were kissed, would that keep you silent?” Galdor asked. Iorlas nodded his head emphatically. “Boromir, lie in the middle of the bed. Yes, on your back. Iorlas, turn over. On your hands and knees. Kneel over Boromir. Kiss him.”

Boromir savored Iorlas’s passionate kiss. He squeezed Iorlas’s nipples gently. Galdor searched the room, laughing when he found oil under the bed. “Our host seems to have been expecting company.” He knelt behind Iorlas and stroked the slender man’s buttocks.

Iorlas moaned into Boromir’s mouth. Boromir peered over Iorlas’s shoulder and guessed from the position of Galdor’s arms that he had slid a finger into Iorlas.

“So tight,” Galdor gasped, confirming his guess. “Boromir, do you know if he has ever . . . ”

“He has,” Boromir said. “But I think only once. And that was a while ago.” Iorlas’s breathing grew ragged and he gave up kissing Boromir, settling for chewing on Boromir’s neck. He grasped Iorlas’s arms as it seemed the man was about to topple over, then realized Iorlas was pushing himself back onto Galdor’s fingers.

Galdor bent over Iorlas’s body until his lips were next to the slender man’s ear. “I’m going to take you,” he whispered.

At the familiar phrase, Boromir’s cock hardened painfully. He reached down to touch Iorlas’s erection, bringing forth a loud moan. Iorlas sank down, on his elbows and knees, kneeling astride Boromir’s body. Boromir could feel Galdor astride his lower legs. He couldn’t move, trapped below the two bodies, and his cock got even harder. Iorlas was biting his neck.

Iorlas cried out in ecstasy: Galdor was penetrating him. Boromir put his hands on Iorlas’s hips and held him as Galdor slid in, then Boromir put his hand back on Iorlas’s cock and pumped it. Iorlas moved his hips uncontrollably, thrusting forward into Boromir’s hand, then thrusting back onto Galdor.

Iorlas could not maintain the rhythm as Galdor increased the speed of his thrusts. The slender man’s upper body collapsed onto Boromir’s chest, giving Boromir a glorious view of Galdor, his eyes closed as he pounded into Iorlas.

“Take all of him in,” Boromir whispered to Iorlas, then flinched as Iorlas bit his chest. Boromir slid his hand under Iorlas so he could grasp the slender man’s cock again. He wrapped his hand around the smooth, hard flesh. He held his hand still, Galdor’s thrusts moving Iorlas’s cock within his hand. “Iorlas! Come for me now,” Galdor gasped.

Boromir thought he would explode as the two bodies above him slammed together. Iorlas cried out loudly, his come spilling over Boromir’s belly and thighs. Galdor groaned, his final thrust pushing Iorlas down, then the tall man collapsed on top of Iorlas.

“Heavy . . . can’t breathe!” Boromir gasped. Unsteadily, Galdor and Iorlas crawled off of him. Boromir lay on his back, his cock straining for release. Galdor’s large hand closed on his erection. Boromir cried out, his climax coming immediately. For several minutes, there was a confusion of lips and hair and murmuring voices. He was kissing and being kissed, holding and being held. Then he was asleep.

Boromir woke three hours before dawn. He got out of the bed and dressed. He had to return to his rooms in the Citadel that night as he would be called at sunrise. And he wanted to leave Iorlas and Galdor alone in the bed. He looked back at them as they lay sleeping.

Iorlas was lying on his side, Galdor lying behind him, curled around him protectively. Galdor’s hand rested on Iorlas’s belly. His nose was buried in Iorlas’s hair.

Boromir went quietly out the door and walked up the winding street to the Citadel.


	5. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

The four of them slept the few hours remaining to the night in Mardil’s farmhouse. In the morning, Galdor again made love to Boromir, this time gently, face to face, as Boromir had seen him doing years earlier with Wulf in the barracks.

Boromir made it home to his rooms in the Citadel, uncomfortable in the saddle thanks to Galdor, and slept like the dead until the late afternoon. When he woke, doubt assailed him.

The two dark-haired men appeared to have forgotten their demand for silver. But Boromir could not forget it. And he could not forget Mardil’s wealth. Where had it come from?

Mardil had never been short of money. His horse was a superb animal. Mardil always paid for the inns they met at. He paid for everything. Over the years, he had given Boromir many valuable gifts. Boromir was forced to conclude that the wealth had not come recently from the sale of the family farm, as Mardil had claimed.

Adding to his unease, he sensed that Mardil had meant every hurtful word he had said about Faramir.

And then there was the strange night with Galdor and Wulf. Boromir could not believe the two soldiers meant harm to his brother. They had not been out to threaten Boromir, but to seduce him, and they had handily succeeded. His face flushed as he recalled their passionate kisses and tender hands.

He pondered Wulf’s hand on his thigh at the table in the barracks dining hall. What if Boromir had not left, and had encouraged him? How would the evening have gone?

Reviewing it all in his mind, Boromir could come to only one conclusion: His lover was a liar. It did not help that he thought he knew the cause. Mardil had made it painfully clear that he feared losing Boromir. To Faramir! Whatever mystery Mardil was hiding, Boromir was certain that Mardil’s insecurity and jealousy would be behind it.

He got out of bed; he badly needed a bath. He had scrubbed himself down at Mardil’s, but that had not helped his aching muscles. He hurt in strange places: his back, his hips, his thighs. And his arse! He headed to the small tiled room where vessels of water and tubs were kept. The room had a large hearth where water heated in dozens of copper kettles. Normally, he would have asked a servant to bring the tub and hot water to his room, but he was in a hurry.

He entered the steamy room, and saw Faramir in the largest tub, his head back, his eyes closed. He opened his eyes and smiled at Boromir.

***

Boromir averted his gaze and dragged a wooden tub near the hearth. He peered into the vessels with cool water and was relieved to find them full. He checked the kettles and added water to four of them. He would not have to call a servant for help.

So no one would interrupt him with his brother.

He halted, forcing himself to recognize the truth. Stop lying to yourself. You want him. His breathing quickened as he pictured Faramir lying beneath him, the beloved face contorting with ecstasy.

“Boromir?”

Boromir cleared his mind with an effort. “Yes?”

“Would you please get me more hot water? I need to rinse my hair.”

Boromir walked to the hearth and poured hot water into a bucket. He added a bit of cool water and tested the temperature, then carried the bucket to Faramir.

Faramir’s hair was a tangled mess. Boromir was relieved to see that the water Faramir sat in was soapy and could not be seen through. He relaxed slightly. He touched Faramir’s hair, trying to untangle it.

“Ow!” Faramir said.

“Your hair is still dirty,” Boromir said, feeling the tangles snag on each other.

“I know. I was too lazy to wash it this time.”

“I’ll do it,” Boromir said. His muscles tensed. He searched for the soft soap and found some in a bowl. He worked up a lather in his hands and massaged it into Faramir’s scalp. It was awkward, as he was bent over the tub. He didn’t want to get any closer.

“Mmm. That feels good,” Faramir said, closing his eyes. Boromir ran his soapy hands through the hair. He rubbed Faramir’s neck. And his shoulders. His fingers were inches from the nipples that begged to be touched. Abruptly, he turned away and fetched the bucket. He added hot water to it to warm it and poured it over Faramir’s head.

Faramir spluttered. “You could have warned me!”

Boromir felt better, as if he had passed a test. He went to Faramir’s room, found a comb, and returned. He sat on the edge of the tub and worked on Faramir’s hair with the comb, getting out the tangles.

“I wish you had washed my hair longer. It felt good. This hurts!”

Boromir smiled. His smile vanished when Faramir stood up.

“Can we do this somewhere else? I’m starting to wrinkle.” Faramir stepped out of the tub.

Boromir involuntarily looked him up and down, then hastily turned away. He stood up and moved away from the tub. Was it his imagination, or had Faramir been semi-erect? He fumbled with the ties of his robe. _Get out of here, Faramir. Get out._ He jumped when Faramir spoke close to him.

“It’s all yours,” Faramir said. “You can take my tub if you want. The water is still hot.” He put on a robe that covered him down to his toes. Boromir sighed.

“Boromir!” His brother’s voice was sharp. “What happened to you?” Faramir touched his neck. Boromir flushed as he remembered Galdor’s teeth. He took off his robe and sank into the water as fast as he could.

“Fine, don’t tell me about it,” Faramir said, and sat on the edge of the tub. “Want me to wash your hair?”

“No!” Boromir shouted.

Faramir left the room without a word. Boromir tried not to think about the hurt he had seen in his brother’s face.

***

Two weeks later, Boromir left Denethor’s council chambers. He had spent the entire day with Denethor, who gave him several penetrating looks that left him uncomfortable. While half listening to the discussions concerning Gondor’s defense, Boromir realized how far out of control his life had become. He was unable to concentrate on the counsel the captains gave, even though he knew it was vital.

He left the White Tower, where the meeting had been held, and wandered around the courtyard surrounding the fountain. He considered going for a short horseback ride to clear his mind. He had been unable to learn more from Mardil. Everyone had been called back for duty as reports of spies near Osgiliath came in. Spies meant an attack was pending. Galdor and Wulf were also called back.

Boromir decided a ride would be helpful. A thought came unbidden into his mind. He would ride to Mardil’s home while he was gone and look for something. Look for what? He didn’t know. Perhaps he could find the source of Mardil’s money. His face flushed at the underhanded action he was considering. He would not do it. It was despicable. Pacing angrily, he almost knocked down the man in front of him.

“Boromir!”

The man’s face was familiar. It was Iorlas, in the uniform of a Guard of the Citadel. Boromir greeted him happily, momentarily distracted from his woes. They went together to the mess and requested ale. It was still an hour to the evening meal.

They sat down together and Boromir tried to listen attentively as Iorlas poured out his news. His brother Beregond was a Guard of the Citadel as well, and they had returned to live in Minas Tirith, where they had been born. The brothers had served in Osgiliath before their promotion.

“You must have done well,” Boromir said.

Iorlas smiled with a hint of pride. “I was lucky to be made a Guard.” Boromir laughed at his modesty. “I was looking forward to seeing you again,” Iorlas added simply.

Boromir hid his surprise. Three years earlier, he had not understood Iorlas’s expression; seeing it again, he did. Iorlas wanted him.

Boromir kept his voice light as he gave Iorlas his own news; out of habit, he spoke almost entirely of Faramir.

“What of Mardil?” Iorlas asked. “I’ve heard of the Shining Ones.” Boromir glowered at the table. There was a brief silence.

“Let’s walk outside; the sun is going to set,” Iorlas said.

They walked to the embrasure overlooking the Great Gate and sat on a stone seat. Boromir watched Iorlas as he sat, his body half turned towards Boromir. Iorlas was the classic man of Numenor: tall, slender, with brown hair so dark it was nearly black, and light grey eyes. His face was grave and compassionate. Boromir guessed he was only two or three years older than himself. Boromir looked at his hands, which had long, strong looking fingers.

“Boromir, there is something I must tell you. About Mardil.” Iorlas looked away from him. Boromir froze. A certainty filled him. Iorlas knew where Mardil’s money came from! That strange look he had given Boromir years earlier: warning and longing intermingled.

“And why are you telling me now?” Boromir asked softly. He moved closer to Iorlas, curious to see how the man would react.

Iorlas did not move away. “I’m telling you now for the same reason I did not tell you before.”

Boromir laughed humorlessly. “You wish him ill.”

Iorlas flushed. “Yes, I do. That is why I kept silent. But I do not wish you ill. So I will keep silent no longer.”

Boromir moved to another seat. The high walls curved around them on three sides; sitting down, they could not be seen. Iorlas rose and sat next to him, his body half turned as before.

Boromir considered. Could he trust Iorlas’s information? Iorlas wished to lower Boromir’s opinion of Mardil for his personal benefit. Or so Boromir read him. There was a simple way to be certain.

He put a hand on the back of Iorlas’s neck. He slid on the seat until his body was next to Iorlas, their thighs touching. He bent his face towards Iorlas and watched the man’s eyes close and his face turn to him. Boromir brushed the man’s mouth with his lips, and the mouth opened eagerly. Iorlas’s hands grasped Boromir’s belt. Boromir stood and walked to the wall, looking down at the gate. He heard Iorlas stand up behind him.

“I cannot trust what you tell me,” Boromir whispered. He turned to look at Iorlas.

Iorlas regarded Boromir steadily. “You can.” There was an intensity in his expression that frightened Boromir.

Unsteadily, Boromir walked away, returning to the White Tower. He was fifty feet away when he heard Iorlas cry in alarm. Boromir rushed to his side and saw wains coming. From Osgiliath. The wains that brought the dead.

***

He ran down to the gate, wondering why no messengers had arrived ahead of the wagons. Later, the dead bodies of the messengers were found, despoiled by Orcs, their dispatches stolen. The work of spies.

Boromir abandoned gathering information from the exhausted soldiers that rode with the wagons, and went up to the Citadel to find his father. If there was any information to be had, Denethor would get it first.

He found Denethor with his advisors. Extra help was being recruited for the Houses of Healing to tend the wounded. Boromir learned that most of the wagons were full of injured soldiers, not the dead. He felt the first rush of hope.

Yet the company of Osgiliath had suffered heavy losses, and the captain was dead. There was no list of injured or dead available. Denethor snapped out orders to see that it was done. In the absence of a captain, he demanded that the company’s surviving senior men be brought to him to give an account of the battle.

Denethor gave him an unexpectedly kind look. Boromir’s grief was close to the surface, and his father was keen at reading men’s minds. Boromir’s heart lurched when his father took him aside. “I’ve heard that a soldier known to you, Mardil of Anorien, acquitted himself well. There are rumors that he was hurt, but there are none that he was killed.”

“Thank you for the news. He is . . . my dearest friend.”

Denethor placed a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to stay here. Help me take the statements from the senior men when they arrive.” There was no faster way to find out what had happened to Mardil, and Boromir agreed readily. He almost wept at the tender concern in Denethor’s eyes. Boromir smiled wryly as he reflected on how neatly his father had given him the one task he was fit to do at that moment.

***

Four senior men were interviewed, and, slowly, they pieced together what had happened. Following the trail of the rumored spies, the company had been ambushed in a ravine. The losses had occurred in the first ten minutes of battle, and then the survivors had retreated, fighting to protect their wounded. Mardil’s name was mentioned over and over as the man who held their rearguard as they fell back. His whereabouts were unknown.

Boromir rose from his seat when Galdor came into the room. The tall man was splashed with black Orc blood. His clothing was torn, and he had lost his helm. He looked at Boromir without a trace of recognition in his eyes. Boromir pushed a seat against him until the tall man sat, and poured him wine. “Drink it,” he said.

Galdor complied. “Wulf is dead,” he said.

Hot rage swept through Boromir, leaving him lightheaded. Why had he not been posted to Osgiliath! He could have prevented this disaster, somehow. Being caught in a ravine meant they had not used sufficient scouts, or scouts with too little experience. His rage ended when he looked up at Galdor’s face.

“I didn’t recover his body,” Galdor whispered. Tears finally streamed down the tall man’s face. Boromir tried to speak but could not; Galdor knew too well the fate of the dead in the hands of the Orcs. The tall man sobbed in his chair and Boromir knelt to embrace him. The room went quiet as the others looked up at the disturbance.

Boromir feared that Galdor could be badly wounded and ignoring it. Some of the blood on him looked like his own. He led Galdor out of the White Tower to the Houses of Healing.

Boromir found the wards less chaotic than he had expected. Quickly he informed the healers of Galdor’s condition, and watched as the tall man was put to bed. His garments were cut off and his body cleaned. There was a massive bruise on his ribcage where a horse had trod on him, and several shallow knife cuts on his arms and chest.

The knives had not been poisoned, the healer reassured Boromir. “We gave him a draught to make him sleep. Two ribs are broken and he must stay abed. Has he suffered a heavy loss?”

“The heaviest,” Boromir said shortly. He walked to the end of the ward, his heart sinking. Then it leapt into his throat when he saw pale gold hair spilled across a bed.

***

Mardil had suffered countless cuts and bruises, but the serious injury was to his left foot, which had been smashed by a mace. The healer was uncertain what would happen. “We may have to take the foot off. I have advised it, yet our Warden believes most of the foot can be saved. There is too much swelling now to make a decision.”

Boromir found the Warden and urged him to save whatever he could. He sat for the rest of the night by Mardil’s bedside, assisting the women of the house. Mardil’s foot had to be kept elevated, which was difficult because he thrashed in a mild fever.

Towards morning, Boromir went to check on Galdor, and found the man sitting up, drinking broth. Galdor looked at his face and smiled. “Mardil is alive, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but . . . ” Boromir was suddenly nauseated. His relief at Mardil’s survival had been so great, he had not considered the effect the injury could have on his lover. “He may not walk.” He sat on the edge of the bed and Galdor held him while he sobbed.

“We’re a fine pair,” he muttered into Boromir’s ear.

***

The next six months were busy. Boromir did something he had never done before: used his influence with Denethor to have a friend, Galdor, made a Guard of the Tower.

Mardil healed better than the Warden’s wildest dreams: he lost his three smallest toes and part of his instep only. Boromir was sickened whenever he remembered that day. He and Galdor had held Mardil’s hands while the healers cut through the foot, removing the mangled flesh. Mardil had not uttered a sound.

After the first month, Boromir arranged for Mardil to return home, finding a farmer’s wife that would visit Mardil daily to bring him meals and take care of the house. He rode out almost every evening, even though he could not stay the night that frequently.

Denethor heaped responsibility on him, and, somewhat to his surprise, he embraced it. The losses in Osgiliath haunted him. He wanted to be in a position to prevent something similar from ever happening again.

Within two months, Mardil could walk, limping, with padding in his boot. He could ride as well as ever, he pointed out to Boromir.

After Mardil had healed sufficiently not to feel constant pain, which took nearly four months, he stripped Boromir’s clothes off and took him. Boromir wept afterwards and Mardil soothed him.

“It’s really not that bad, my love,” Mardil assured him. But they both knew his days as a soldier had ended.

Boromir sought to find Mardil a position he could perform on horseback only; all that turned up was duty with the supply wagons, which he didn’t bother to mention. Mardil would not be content with such a dull task.

Finally, he found something that might suit; the army horsemasters needed men to guide and protect the fresh horses, and their minders, traveling from Rohan to Gondor every six months. The journey took three months round trip. It meant long separations, but Boromir thought it ideal in all other respects, and was relieved when Mardil agreed.

Six months after he had feared Mardil was dead, Mardil rode to Rohan.

***

Boromir was grateful for the return to sanity in his life in all areas, but for one: Faramir. His younger brother had turned fifteen, yet he was still treated as a child by Denethor, who thought his youngest son lacked firmness of purpose.

Relations between the two brothers, however, had returned to normal. Faramir had stayed away from him for a few days following Boromir’s outburst in the bath, then had swiftly returned to his affectionate self.

Boromir noted, however, that his brother had not come to his room early in the morning for months. So it surprised him when it happened shortly before Mardil’s departure to Rohan.

He felt the familiar weight of Faramir on the bed. He waited for his brother to do something -- poke him, tickle him -- but nothing happened. He kept his eyes closed and tried not to smile. He rolled over when he felt a finger touch the back of his neck. Boromir’s neck was marked with love bites once again.

After Mardil’s injury, Boromir had refused to take him, roughly or otherwise. He could see it made Mardil fume, yet his lover said nothing, taking out his frustrations on Boromir’s body, especially his neck. Mardil had broken the skin a few times.

Boromir would never again comply with Mardil’s request to take him. There was only one man he wanted to yield to him, and it was not Mardil. And Mardil did not yield to him out of love. Boromir stirred uneasily at the thought: Mardil yielded to him to control him.

He looked at Faramir, his brother’s face filled with love and concern. He still touched the marks on the back of Boromir’s neck.

“What, no breakfast?” Boromir said roughly. Faramir smiled. Boromir let out a yell when frozen feet touched his legs.

***

He was walking through the barracks two weeks after Mardil’s departure to Rohan when a hand on his shoulder spun him around. He was shocked to see Iorlas, looking as if he wanted to beat Boromir with his fists.

Boromir raised his hands, palms out. What was wrong with the man? His gentle face was a mask of fury. Iorlas took a step back, holding a hand up as if to ask for time. Boromir put his hands down and waited.

Iorlas spoke low, his voice unsteady. “Is it true that you seek to honor Mardil?”

Boromir raised his eyebrows. It was true. The suggestion had come from the captains, who had approached him about it two days earlier. Boromir distrusted them, fearing the captains wished to honor his friend to curry favor with him, though he could not deny that Mardil’s actions in Osgiliath had been valiant. He was credited with saving dozens, even hundreds, of lives.

“Yes, it is true,” Boromir said. If Iorlas knew of it, the captains must have mentioned it to some of the men. What honor would be given to Mardil they had not yet decided. Boromir wished to award him a new steed, as Mardil’s mount had been killed in the battle.

“I need to speak to you. This will take some time, and we must not be disturbed,” Iorlas muttered. Distrust crept over Boromir. He recalled Iorlas’s hands on his belt.

“How about my rooms?” Boromir said caustically.

“Yes, that would be best.” Iorlas smiled faintly. “I know where they are.”

***

Boromir paced up and down his rooms, waiting for Iorlas. Iorlas had been on duty until sunset, and the wait was driving him insane. He could not imagine what could have angered Iorlas so greatly, and he feared learning the answer. Boromir called for wine and food to be brought to his rooms so that they would not have to interrupt their discussion for a meal.

Iorlas arrived immediately after getting off duty, still in his livery, though he had removed his helm. He was subdued, but there were two bright spots on his cheeks, and he moved clumsily. He had changed his mind about something.

Iorlas walked to the table set with food and wine. “May I, my lord?” he asked. Boromir nodded and watched Iorlas pour himself a glass of wine and take a sip. Iorlas sat down and rested his elbows on the table.

“Boromir, if I ask you not to give Mardil any honors, would you take my word for it that he does not deserve them? Or would you insist on an explanation?” Iorlas looked at the table as he spoke.

Boromir sat down at the table and poured himself wine. He put his unsteady hands in his lap. “I would not take your word for it,” he said evenly.

Iorlas’s face darkened. “If you will not listen to me, Boromir, I will speak to the captains. I would die before I saw him honored!”

Boromir’s stomach churned into an icy knot. He could not imagine anything foul enough to make Iorlas this enraged. “Then I will listen,” he said, unable to keep a quaver out of his voice.

Iorlas’s rage vanished. He was haunted and full of pain. He closed his eyes as he spoke.

“Mardil is a corpse robber. He steals from our men as they lie dead on the field. I saw him.”

Boromir rose and moved backwards, knocking over his chair. His eyes searched Iorlas’s face desperately for a sign that Iorlas was not speaking the truth. He did not find it.

“No,” Boromir whispered. He bellowed in anguish. “No!” He clenched his fists, then put his hands to his stomach as a sharp pain cut through him. He staggered to his washbasin and was noisily sick in it. Vaguely, he was aware of Iorlas holding him as he bent over it.

At last the spasms ceased. Iorlas guided him to the bed. He looked at Boromir’s grey face and hurried from the room. Faramir returned with him almost instantly.

“I heard raised voices,” his brother was saying, and then he saw Boromir and rushed to him.

Faramir looked at the washbasin and gave sharp instructions to Iorlas, then sat on the bed, taking Boromir’s hands. Boromir thought of the gifts Mardil had given him, and he was sick on himself before Faramir could bring a basin to him.

Faramir pulled off the soiled blankets. Iorlas returned with clean basins and hot water, and a servant brought a steaming flask. Faramir took it to Boromir and said, “Drink it.” Boromir smelled it, and his stomach rebelled. It was hot milk with a touch of mead, something he had not had since he was a child.

“Get it away from me,” he growled, but did not resist when Faramir held it to his lips.

Iorlas gathered up the soiled blankets and washbasin and departed with the servant.

Boromir’s stomach relaxed slightly as the hot liquid soothed it. Faramir pulled his soiled shirt off of him and cleaned him with a steamy wet cloth. He rubbed Boromir’s face and arms briskly. Before he could finish, Boromir doubled over in grief, sobbing. Faramir held him, uncomplaining when Boromir dug fingers into his back.

His pain was as fierce as if Mardil had died, for he was now dead to Boromir. Dead. Even worse, the man he had loved had never really existed.

Iorlas was back in the room, busying himself with clean blankets, putting a fresh washbasin on the stand. His face was drawn. Boromir’s sobs halted, and Iorlas knelt by the bed.

“What can I do?” Iorlas asked. The knowledge that he had destroyed something Boromir thought precious haunted his face.

“I need to talk to you,” Boromir croaked. “Faramir, please leave us for a moment.” He watched as Faramir immediately went to the door. Not a word of reproach ever falls from his lips, Boromir thought. He shivered, and his stomach twisted again.

“Get me out of this bed,” he asked Iorlas.

***

Dressed in clean clothing, he sat at the table. Iorlas urged him to eat, and he slowly chewed two pieces of bread. Iorlas gave him watered wine to wash it down.

“I have but one question,” Boromir said. “Why did you not tell me years ago?” He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Iorlas hunched miserably in his chair,. “I didn’t know then; I found out this year. I tried to tell you, but you would not listen.” Iorlas took a sip of wine and sat up straighter.

“I heard hints of Mardil’s dishonesty when I first became a soldier. He had more money than could be explained. The rumors were that he had taken it from brigands. I distrusted him because he always had a plausible explanation for the money. A relative who had died and left it to him, for instance. Not all of my dislike of him was rational.” Iorlas smiled softly. “I hated him that night, when he joined us at the fire and dazzled you.”

Boromir was too drained to react. “And that is why you said nothing?”

“Yes. I knew my motive was not an honorable one. I wanted you to dislike him as much as I did. But . . . I saw him. I saw him take a purse from a dead soldier’s coat. It meant nothing to me at the time -- he could have been taking it for the soldier’s family -- then a month later I saw him take the purse out of his own pocket and buy ale for everyone at an inn. That was when I knew. It all came together: why he sought the most dangerous postings. Why he would be suddenly flush.”

Boromir laid a hand on top of Iorlas’s hand on the table. “It took courage to tell me this.”

Iorlas shook his head. “I would have said nothing if you had agreed not to honor Mardil. That, I could not live with. I could not bear to be the one who told you. You will hate the sight of me now. I don’t blame you.”

Boromir took his hand and squeezed it. “I do not hate you.” He smiled weakly. “But I’m a bit sick at the moment.”

They sat at the table for an hour. Iorlas pressed Boromir to drink more water than wine. They spoke of other things. Iorlas’s brother Beregond had married and hoped to start a family.

“My brother is after me to marry as well, and I might,” Iorlas said. “Certainly my brother seems happy enough.” He smiled widely, and for a moment all the grief was gone. “You and I are lucky men, for I see that, in your brother, you also have a true friend. He will be a fine captain some day. He had me jumping and scurrying!”

“Tell my father that,” Boromir said dryly.

Iorlas laughed. “Boromir, do not blame your father overmuch. You shall always outshine Faramir, I fear.” He stopped smiling when Boromir’s face clouded.

“I am sorry,” Iorlas said. “I did not mean to cause hurt. Alas, with you, I am cursed to do so.”

Iorlas rose and gathered up his coat off of a chair. He had removed most of his livery to prevent it from being soiled.

“Don’t go,” Boromir said. The thought of being alone filled him with dread. He stood and wrapped his arms around Iorlas, who yielded to his embrace instantly. Boromir stepped away from him and secured the door, then turned back and embraced Iorlas again. The slender body pressed into him and a long denied hunger rose in him.

They were the same height, so kissing was effortless. Boromir started out gently, but the softness of Iorlas’s response inflamed him. He wanted to push the gentle man until he could take no more . . . And he wanted to blot Mardil out.

Roughly, he pushed Iorlas onto the bed. Iorlas had on only a shirt and breeches, the rest of his livery still hanging over a chair. Boromir pulled off his boots, then his breeches, leaving Iorlas in his long shirt. He kept his eyes on Iorlas’s face while he undressed him. He watched, almost detached, as Iorlas responded to his hard gaze: Iorlas could not lie still on the bed.

Boromir stripped his own clothing off and lay down next to Iorlas, pulling a blanket over them. He kissed Iorlas hard, leaving the man gasping. He lay on top of the slender man and groaned with desire when Iorlas wrapped his legs around Boromir’s waist.

“I want to take you,” he whispered in Iorlas’s ear, drawing pleasure from Iorlas’s shivers beneath him.

His desire was urgent. He slid his hand between Iorlas’s legs and stroked his opening. Iorlas moaned and spread his legs wider. His hands were in Boromir’s hair, twisting it. He sucked on Boromir’s neck. Boromir rubbed his erection against the opening, testing it. Iorlas’s body tightened.

“I have never done this,” Iorlas gasped.

Boromir pulled away slightly. His desire increased so sharply he almost drove into Iorlas that moment. Watching the strong, slender body yearn for him, yield to him . . . He knew what it reminded him of. He wasn’t going to think about that now. He kissed Iorlas and stroked his nipples, trying not to smile as the man moaned.

“Have you done _nothing_ , Iorlas?” he asked.

“I was with a maid, three years ago,” Iorlas panted.

Using every bit of control he had, Boromir licked and sucked his way up and down Iorlas’s torso, ignoring the man’s erection until Iorlas made frantic pleading sounds. He took Iorlas in his mouth and caressed him with his tongue. With his fingers, he teased the slender man’s opening, stroking it, not pushing in.

“If you don’t stop now,” Iorlas whimpered, “I’ll come.”

Boromir pulled away and kissed Iorlas hard. “You don’t come until I say so,” he said sternly into Iorlas’s ear, nearly coming himself at the delightful way Iorlas trembled beneath him at the words.

“Will you . . . ” Iorlas closed his eyes and shivered.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to take you,” Boromir said, smiling as he thought of Galdor. “Turn over; it will be easier for you.” He moved the slender body so that Iorlas was face down. He reached for the bottle of oil under the bed and coated himself, then lay on top of Iorlas, lifting himself slightly, so he could rub oiled fingers over the trembling man’s opening.

He gently pressed a finger in. Too tight. This was not going to work. Iorlas pushed back, driving his finger in deeper. Perhaps it would work after all. He pushed two fingers in and slowly moved them in and out, aiming the fingers in the direction of Iorlas’s navel. Iorlas moaned and pushed his buttocks against Boromir. “Oh! Please Boromir do that again . . . ”

Boromir gritted his teeth, his fingers telling him how good Iorlas was going to feel. He slid his fingers out and pressed his groin into Iorlas, sliding his erection in the cleft of Iorlas’s buttocks. He bit Iorlas on the neck.

“Have you been saving this for me?” Boromir whispered. Iorlas cried out softly. Boromir pressed himself in, going slowly. The effort left him gasping. He was only halfway in when Iorlas pushed back against him. He heard sheets tear as Iorlas dragged his fingernails down the bed.

“Give it to me,” Boromir panted. He thrust in and out at last. He pulled Iorlas up onto his hands and knees. “Spread your legs. More.” He stopped holding himself back and pounded in. “I’m taking . . . what’s mine. Give it to me,” Boromir growled. Iorlas bit down on a cushion to stifle his cries.

Boromir reached beneath Iorlas and grabbed the man’s cock. It was slightly smaller than his own, and was satiny in his hand. So smooth. He groaned as Iorlas pushed back against him to meet each thrust. “Come for me!” The body below him convulsed, and Boromir heard a muffled scream. Iorlas’s come drenched his hand. He let go of Iorlas’s softening erection and grabbed the man’s hips, taking Iorlas until the man was limp beneath him. He came while biting down on Iorlas’s shoulder, shuddering, each aftershock taking him by surprise with its fierceness.

He moved off Iorlas and collapsed on the bed. Iorlas kissed him feverishly. Boromir felt a wave of guilt and regret; he had imagined that the yielding body beneath him was Faramir. _Forgive me, Iorlas. Forgive me, Faramir._ Boromir fell asleep, a thought drifting through his mind: Mardil had perhaps known him better than he had known himself. From now on, Boromir would never yield, only take.

***

He awoke in the middle of the night to find Iorlas gone. He was not surprised; Iorlas would be protective of his lord’s reputation.

Boromir lay awake, thinking, for the rest of the night. In the morning, he dressed and went in search of Galdor.

***

Galdor looked at Mardil’s small farmhouse, then looked at Boromir. “Why are we here?” Galdor asked. His face was sad. Boromir knew he was remembering his night there with Wulf, Boromir, and Mardil.

Boromir told him curtly about the source of Mardil’s wealth. Galdor’s face darkened until it was purple. Boromir was sure that Galdor had known nothing of it, yet he still felt relief at the confirmation he saw in Galdor’s face.

“Galdor, what was going on that night you and Wulf came here?” Boromir asked when the man was slightly calmer, his face lightening to a mottled red.

“Wulf saw you in the barracks and told me you were finally old enough to take his fancy.” Galdor smiled to himself. “He preferred big men,” he explained unnecessarily.

“I gathered that,” Boromir said softly.

“So the two of us set out to seduce you. We knew about Mardil, of course. He was the greatest arse bandit who ever lived.” Boromir flinched and Galdor looked at him curiously. “Not after he met you, Boromir. He was faithful to you. He loved you; never forget that. I know it is tempting to think of him as without a shred of goodness, but Men, and love, are not that simple.”

“And you . . . ” Galdor smiled at him fondly. “We were sure you were his lover. After we spoke to you both in the mess, we wanted to have the two of you. You, however, did not seem interested. You left when Wulf touched you under the table. I, on the other hand, did not meet any resistance when I reached between Mardil’s legs.” His face darkened again and he did not speak for a moment.

“When Mardil left the mess, we followed him and made our feelings plain. Wulf was crushed that you weren’t interested, until Mardil said he could convince you. He told us to come to the farmhouse and demand money for silence, and then he would talk you into giving your body instead. He even told me to use my teeth on the back of your neck if you showed reluctance.” Galdor smiled, remembering. “It sounded insane, but Wulf and I weren’t thinking clearly at that point.”

Galdor paused and stroked Boromir’s hair. “Wulf burned for you, shining one. And so did I. If Mardil had asked us to dress as Orcs and pretend to ravish you, we would have done it. Wulf did not show his feelings readily, but when he did, it made him . . . ”

“Beautiful,” Boromir said. Galdor nodded, his eyes wet.

Galdor’s recollections broke off. “How did Mardil convince you, by the way?”

“He told me you threatened to harm my brother,” Boromir said.

“So that’s why he did it. To put you in his debt.” Galdor spoke to himself. Galdor looked at the farmhouse as if he would smash it flat with one fist. “Why are we here, Boromir?” he asked again.

Boromir went inside, searching for the dark blue box. He found it behind a loose stone in the hearth. Galdor remained outside, so Boromir took it to him. “I want you to give all of it to the families of the men who were killed in Osgiliath. If there is any left over, I am sure you know of other soldiers’ families who are in need.”

Galdor nodded. “I will do it.” He gestured to the house. “What of the rest of his treasures?”

“Burn it.”

***

Boromir rode away, his heart light. For much of the night he had lain awake, for a terrible realization had come to him: Mardil would not pay for what he had done. He deserved death, and Boromir could not charge his lover with his crimes. Mardil would expect protection from him, and would not hesitate to force Boromir into providing it by using any means he had at hand. And Mardil had so much at hand. He could destroy Boromir, and, through him, Faramir.

Galdor remained behind to make sure the fire did not burn out of control. Once the house was fully engulfed, the tall man would raise the alarm. But not soon enough to save the farmhouse, which would be reduced to ashes and blackened stones.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

**3002 T.A.**

Boromir threw himself into his work, readying for the day he would become Captain of the White Tower.

When he wasn’t working and could spare a moment for himself, Boromir was sunk in gloom.

For ten years, ever since the day Wulf had kissed him in the armoury, Boromir had feared that his penchant for men would lead to disaster. And what could he call what had occurred with Mardil and Faramir but a disaster? He had escaped the irretrievable calamity of someone hostile to him learning of his inclinations, but, aside from that, he could not think of a way things could have ended worse.

So he sought no replacement for his former lover. Three years had passed since he discovered Faramir with Mardil, and the wound was still raw. Faramir treated him with courteous indifference when they met, which was rarely.

If he could not have Faramir’s love, he would have none. Somehow denying his nature made his guilt easier to bear. He had made Faramir suffer; now he would suffer in payment.

There was no clear idea in his mind what his suffering might accomplish. Did he hope that the gods would take pity on him and allow his longings to be satisfied without any of the attendant miseries? Or was it merely that he was unable to love another, as he loved already? In his darkest moments, he wished that his nature could be changed, all his doubtful desires vanished.

There was one thing that brought him joy: Galdor and Iorlas had fallen in love. Their happiness gave him hope that perhaps he and all like him were not cursed to misery.

In spite of the pain that seethed below the surface, he achieved a repose that could be mistaken for contentment by anyone who did not know him well. He clung to his routines and his work, his lifeline in the sea of emotions in which he foundered.

But he could keep the world at bay for only so long.

He was in Cair Andros, in his small room built into the northern wall, reading a staffing report. He could hear the river buffet the other side of the wall, as powerfully as a stormy sea battering the shore.

There was a knock on his door and his aide announced a visitor, a Guard of Minas Tirith. As soon as Galdor stepped through the doorway, Boromir knew that the tall man had important news for him. Galdor rarely left the city. He asked his aide to let no one disturb them except for an emergency.

Galdor sat on a stool by the rough table Boromir used as a writing desk. As soon as the aide had left, he stood and Boromir embraced him quickly. For five years, Galdor had been his closest friend, and had shared nearly all of his secrets.

But the Galdor sitting in his room was another man, stern and forbidding. As usual, the tall man wasted no time in coming to the point: “Mardil is dead.”

Boromir was taken by surprise when grief washed through him. Mardil had betrayed him, yet for years Boromir had loved him, or loved the man he thought Mardil to be. It was that imaginary man he mourned.

“How did it happen?” Boromir asked. _It could not have been a natural death._

“He was executed -- by archers -- in Rohan a month ago. He was found in possession of the property of a soldier of Rohan. The man had been killed a week earlier in a skirmish with Orcs.”

Boromir bowed his head. His former lover’s name would become a byword for the foulest treachery imaginable: a corpse robber who fattened his purse by stealing from men fallen in battle.

“When will everyone know . . . of this?” Boromir asked. _Dear gods, do not let Faramir find out what touched him._

“They won’t find out. That is what I came to tell you,” Galdor said. “The new Second Marshal of the Mark, Theodred, was in charge of the execution. It is believed that Mardil fell in battle, and Theodred is keeping it that way.”

“I can understand why they would wish to keep it secret. The families of the soldiers he desecrated, the pain they would feel . . . ”

“That is not why. The Steward asked Theodred to stop tongues from wagging.”

Boromir’s mouth fell open in shock. “My father knew of the execution?”

“Of course. The Rohirrim would not execute a soldier of Gondor without the knowledge of the Lord of the City. They sent a messenger to Lord Denethor. He upheld the sentence of death, and asked for silence.”

“My father did it for me,” Boromir said softly. He looked up at Galdor. “How do you know this?”

“Your father bade me to tell you.”

Uneasily, Boromir asked, “Have you ever done his bidding in a like matter, Galdor?”

The tall man spoke mildly. “I serve the Steward of Gondor, not his son.”

Boromir flushed. He had deserved it, but it hurt, nonetheless. Anger sharpened his tongue. “One day you will serve _me_.”

Galdor smiled, showing his teeth. Among the many undercurrents in the smile, one was dominant. “I look forward to that day, my lord.” His voice was low and seductive.

Boromir reddened again, not with anger. Galdor knelt in front of Boromir’s stool, between Boromir’s legs, and pulled him into a kiss. Boromir hesitated for only a moment, then slid off his stool to sit on Galdor’s thighs, pressing his erection into Galdor’s mail-clad abdomen. Boromir ground his buttocks into Galdor’s crotch, his legs wrapping around Galdor’s waist. If not for the many intervening garments, the outcome would have been inevitable and swift.

“We need to find you a lover,” Galdor said, pulling away with a smile. “You go up in flames at the smallest spark.” He was taken aback by the despair that washed over Boromir’s face.

“You know that Iorlas and I would welcome you, Boromir,” Galdor said. He was still kneeling in front of Boromir. He put his hands on Boromir’s knees. “In our bed,” he added in a low tone, on the off chance that Boromir had mistaken his meaning.

“I love another.” Boromir’s voice was full of pain, and Galdor was amazed, for he had known nothing of it.

“He cannot return your love? Is he married?” Galdor asked.

Boromir smiled weakly when Galdor immediately assumed his lover was a man. “He is not married.”

Galdor studied his old friend. He guessed that the man Boromir loved was not of an inclination to love one of his own sex; he pitied Boromir. “You should not be always alone, Boromir. Come to us when you are next in Minas Tirith. Iorlas and I now share a lodging. There would be no danger to you.”

Boromir looked unhappily at Galdor’s concerned face. The forbidding warrior had vanished, his friend taking his place. “I cannot accept your offer. Iorlas . . . he looks like him. I have already taken him once with the other in mind,” he confessed.

A flicker of anger crossed Galdor’s face, though his words were gentle. “Do not berate yourself for it. It must have been years ago. And you did not do it again.” Galdor added, mock threateningly, “You had better not do it again.”

Boromir smiled. “I would not. I hear he has a dangerous lover.”

Galdor laughed. “What of the dangerous lover? Could he not comfort you?” Against his better judgment, it seemed, Galdor was leaning into him again. The tall man kissed him. “Iorlas would not mind.”

“Alas, I cannot take comfort there, either,” Boromir muttered.

“Why not?” Galdor’s lips were on his throat.

Boromir whispered into his ear. “Because I would come to like it too much.”

The tall man was silenced by this last confession, rising and walking about the confining quarters of the small room.

“Boromir, can you tell me anything of the man that you love? Is there naught I can do to help?”

Boromir studied the ground. “I cannot tell you, because you serve the Steward of Gondor, not his son.”

Galdor said, baffled, “I would never tell your father of your . . . preferences. It does not concern him, unless you would hinder a marriage he has arranged. But I have no doubt you would marry if he wished it. You are always obedient to your father’s will.”

Boromir did not reply, watching Galdor sink deep in thought, perhaps thinking of men who resembled Iorlas. Boromir had not explained that the resemblance of Iorlas to his beloved held true only from the neck down.

As Faramir grew older, he resembled Iorlas less, as he was showing every intention of becoming a powerful man like his older brother. _By the time Faramir is twenty-one, in two years time_ , Boromir thought, _he will outweigh Iorlas by a couple of stone at least._

Boromir’s palms were suddenly slippery and he was clammy under his garments. Should he tell Galdor the identity of the man he loved? He had told no one so far, though Mardil had guessed. Was it safer if no one knew, or if one person knew? What if something happened to him? Whom could he trust to take a message to Faramir?

“Galdor, if I tell you, I warn you that you may think less of me.” Boromir’s gaze was on the ground. _And that is an understatement._ “I love Faramir. He knows.”

Boromir anticipated a wide variety of reactions from Galdor, but not the one he received. A look of inconsolable grief crossed Galdor’s face, but Boromir did not move towards him; he was struck with weariness after making his confession. He had no comfort left to offer anyone in that moment.

Galdor spoke in a strained voice. “Boromir, Wulf was my first cousin. My mother’s sister’s son.” The closest kin in the old reckoning, as close as brother or sister. “Which is why we moved hundreds of miles from our home in Anfalas to Minas Tirith.” He looked at Boromir with pity. “You would be known wherever you went.”

Both men were silent for so long that Boromir nearly went to sleep, his overwrought nerves churning to a halt. Then Galdor spoke.

“You say Faramir knows? Does he return . . . ”

“He knows. And I think . . . I don’t know.” Boromir clenched his jaw. He had to make a request before he fell onto his cot in exhaustion. “It may be that one day he or I will have need of you. And if I die, I would rest easy if you would . . . tell him.”

Galdor nodded. “I will do that for you, Boromir,” he said softly.

Boromir rose from the stool and went to his cot. For years he had kept his secret. Now that it was out, his strained nerves were uncoiling, leaving him limp. He sat on the cot and yawned.

Galdor moved his stool next to the cot. “Should I leave, my lord?”

“No, please stay,” Boromir said. He had an impulse to ask Galdor to watch him until he fell asleep, as if he were a child that feared a nightmare.

Galdor’s confession about his dead lover had surprised him, although it shouldn’t have, Boromir thought. The two men had communicated wordlessly, something born only of long acquaintance. He and Faramir could do the same. And Galdor and Wulf had looked much alike.

With pain, Boromir recalled the day Wulf had died in Osgiliath, and how Galdor had nearly lost his reason when he had been unable to recover his lover’s body. The dead body of Wulf had been taken by Orcs. Knowing Wulf’s kinship to Galdor, Boromir was horrified anew. He imagined how he would feel if the same fate befell Faramir. He did not think he could live through it.

Looking at his friend, he decided to give up for a moment the warrior shell that was hardening around him. If he could not show weakness before Galdor, then there was no one he could show it to -- and that was an unbearable notion.

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” he asked Galdor. The tall man immediately moved his stool closer. Boromir lay back on the cot and Galdor took one of his hands.

“Do you wish to speak of him?” Galdor asked softly.

Boromir was immediately close to tears. He would never have dreamed of asking for such a gift.

“Yes,” Boromir replied, and for a while that was all he could say.

“I always loved him, of course. He and I were so close, even more so after our mother died. Faramir wasn’t old enough at the time to understand what had happened. He needed me so much then. Denethor is a good man, but . . . not warm. He treated us as if we were miniature soldiers. He did not tolerate weakness or waywardness.”

“Now that I am older, I see that he was too subtle. He cared in ways that escaped our notice. For instance, when I thought Mardil had been killed, he gave me the task of interviewing the senior men to find out what had happened, the task I most desired.”

Galdor nodded. “Your father loves you, Boromir,” he said softly.

Boromir smiled. “He sent you to me, didn’t he?”

Galdor grinned.

Boromir continued: “I remember the day I fell in love with Faramir. It was terrifying. One day I looked at Faramir and saw he had become a man. Not any man, but the best man I knew -- the best man I have ever known.”

“And it couldn’t hurt that he is beautiful,” Galdor teased.

Boromir laughed. A weight was falling from him with each word he uttered. It was making him so sleepy . . .

“Yes, he is beautiful. And there is nothing mean in him. He would do no one a hurt,” Boromir said.

“Iorlas is like that as well,” Galdor said. Boromir nodded, though he had not considered it before. Galdor continued: “I don’t see the resemblance between them, however. One is dark and the other fair.”

“The resemblance is of the body, not the face,” Boromir said, blushing. “Now that you mention Iorlas’s goodness, I must have responded to that as well. His nature is like to Faramir’s.”

“So you have seen Faramir unclad.” Galdor kept his voice neutral.

“Many times. He is my brother, after all. He feels no need to hide his nakedness from me. At least, he didn’t.” Boromir’s relief was tinged with sadness. “It has not been easy, resisting. At times, it has been . . . nearly impossible.”

“Something has happened between you?”

“It was after I found him with Mardil.” Boromir had relaxed so fully he forgot he had withheld the incident from his friend. He heard the stool fall over and then Galdor was standing over him.

“Mardil! What did he do to your brother?” Galdor hissed.

“He seduced him when Faramir was sixteen. I never told Faramir anything about Mardil, for I feared my brother would discern the relationship that lay beneath my words. When I was gone for ten months in South Gondor, Mardil joined the armoury staff and used his position as a teacher to seduce Faramir.”

“Mardil looks like you!” Galdor said softly.

“Yes,” Boromir said. “I thought Faramir would be innocent all his life of my desires. Mardil destroyed that. And I learned . . . I learned he was not as innocent as I thought him. He tried to . . . ”

Boromir squeezed his eyes shut. He could see on the inside of his eyelids Faramir naked, his arms reaching out for Boromir, his face imploring.

“Mardil!” Galdor uttered the name like a curse. “I wish him dead all over again. I know that it is evil to rejoice at a man’s death, but I would have happily stood with those archers as they drew back their bows!”

Boromir knew how he felt; he had come close to striking Mardil a death blow that night. If Faramir had not been there, he would have done so.

“Boromir -- please forgive me for asking -- _why_ have you resisted?” Galdor said. “If he wants you . . . ”

“Iorlas said to me once that I would always outshine Faramir. He didn’t mean it to hurt, yet it did. That is what has kept me from acting on my desire. I fear that somehow I would . . . obliterate him.” _And I fear he no longer loves me._

“I understand. There is a great gap of experience between you. He is young, only nineteen. When he is older, perhaps your fear will be ungrounded.”

Boromir shook his head. “I think it will not matter,” he said softly. “There is more to it than his age.” _I want to possess him utterly. Nothing would be left over for Faramir, for I would take it all._ He shuddered, recalling the aggression that consumed him whenever he had taken Mardil.

“Boromir, I have never thanked you for inviting me to Iorlas’s for dinner.” Galdor spoke lightly, and Boromir sensed that his friend was trying to turn him to happier thoughts.

Boromir smiled. “Iorlas hasn’t thanked me, either.”

Galdor laughed, then grew somber. “Boromir, I truly must thank you. Before that, I despaired. I thought of ending my life.”

Boromir sat up and drew Galdor to the cot. The tall man sat on the edge of it and the cot creaked in warning.

“Boromir, it would break my heart if you were to fall into despair. Do not close yourself off from your friends because of this misfortune. You have no control over it. It is no different from a bolt of lightening that starts a fire in the woods. And do not close yourself off from Faramir. He is your brother, and he loves you.”

“You are right, Galdor. I avoid him, and I should not. It is punishing him for my own flaws to do so.”

“You promise not to shut out your friends, or your brother?” Galdor leaned over him.

“I promise.”

Galdor helped Boromir to undress, then covered him with blankets.

“I will not go until you are asleep, my lord,” Galdor said, sitting back on his stool.

“It will not be long,” Boromir muttered. He had hardly uttered the words before sleep overtook him.

***

The news of Mardil’s death left Boromir with a burning desire to see Faramir, to make sure his brother was safe. He was thankful that Mardil was no longer in the world. Faramir would be safe from contamination; Mardil was buried and his crimes were buried with him.

Boromir was scheduled to return to Minas Tirith for a week in a fortnight’s time, but he would not wait. He had to leave the next day to see Faramir, even if only for a moment.

***

He arrived in Minas Tirith two days later, too late for conversation with his brother. It was long past midnight. He went to his rooms in the Citadel and prepared himself for bed, discarding everything except his leggings, then burrowed under the blankets. But he could not find sleep. He had to see Faramir first.

Boromir entered his brother’s room quietly and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Faramir was asleep, lying on his back. Boromir stood at the side of his brother’s bed and kissed his brow. He had not touched Faramir thus for three years.

Faramir’s face was composed in sleep. Boromir stroked Faramir’s cheek with his fingertips. His love for Faramir gripped him mercilessly. He loved Faramir more than anything on earth.

His fingers trailed slowly over the beloved face. He touched the hair, the ears, the lips. He ignored the warning voice that rose in him. It seemed inadequate to touch those lips with his fingers. Would not his lips be better? His fingers touched Faramir’s throat. Would it not be right to let his caress extend further, to the nipples he could see under the thin fabric of Faramir’s nightshirt?

He remembered the last time he had touched those nipples. He had not taken one into his mouth, then. Faramir had gasped and pressed against him when he squeezed them; what might he do if Boromir were to suck them . . .

Abruptly, Faramir muttered something and rolled over onto his stomach, his breathing slow and even.

Boromir swiftly withdrew his hand and left the room. He was able to fall asleep only after he brought himself to climax with his hand. In his mind, Faramir was naked on the bed at the inn, his legs spread, pushing back against the man thrusting into him, his face nearly unrecognizable in the throes of passion. Except that in Boromir’s fantasy, it was he who was on the bed with Faramir, not Mardil.

***  
A year later, four hours after sunset, he made his way across the courtyard in the Citadel. That day, Denethor had made him Captain of the White Tower. Customarily given to the Steward’s heir, Boromir knew he had earned it, and, by the resounding cheers from his fellow soldiers, it seemed they did, as well.

He had not been in Minas Tirith for such a lengthy period for a few years. It was strange, almost, to see Denethor and Faramir every day.

Something had happened between Faramir and himself that he did not fully understand. Following the night he had gone to Faramir’s room, his brother’s coldness to him had softened. And when he had arrived in the city for the ceremony, after Faramir had embraced him in the usual formal manner, Faramir’s fingertips had trailed across his palm.

It was an intentionally sensual caress. There had been nothing else for a couple of days. Then, when Faramir had kissed his cheek earlier that day, shortly after he had been made Captain, his lips had grazed Boromir’s ear.

Boromir was not sure if he was ecstatic or horrified. Was Faramir trying to let him know, in a way that could not draw attention, that he felt something for Boromir? He resolved to return the gestures, if that was what they were. He went to Faramir’s room, uncertain that his brother would be in. The sounds of celebration still resounded throughout the city.

He found Faramir there, curled up on the window seat with a book. His younger brother was twenty, and his resemblance to Iorlas was at an end. He was as strongly built as Boromir, though he was slenderer, with longer limbs. _He moves with greater grace than I ever will_ , Boromir thought.

Boromir stood inside the doorway, all of his certainty gone. He had had too much to drink that night. Why had he come to Faramir’s room?

Faramir rose, as if it were entirely natural for Boromir to show up so late at night, and invited him to sit. Boromir sat on the broad window seat and looked out, although he could see nothing except the darkness of the night.

“You look splendid in that livery, Boromir,” Faramir said. “Black becomes you. Makes your hair brighter, somehow. You positively shone today.”

Boromir blushed. He could not make small talk with Faramir, so late at night, with so much wine in his veins. He stood up. “I came to say goodnight.”

Faramir stood with him and said, “Goodnight, then.” He leaned forward and kissed Boromir on the lips quickly, but not quickly enough; as their lips met, their mouths opened slightly. Boromir’s mouth filled with Faramir’s breath.

Boromir left the room without another word. _I must not kiss him. I am not strong enough for it._ Boromir went outside, staying away from the clots of singing soldiers scattered about the Citadel. At last he found a quiet area near the northern wall. He needed sleep, yet he could tell it would elude him. He dreaded the long hours of the night before him, awake in his cold bed, alone with his thoughts. And he had been affected by the brief kiss . . .

“Captain Boromir? May I offer you my congratulations?’

Boromir turned and saw a young soldier a few feet away. He cursed himself for not hearing the soldier approach.

He spoke the polite words expected of him, recognizing the young man: Eradan, who served in Cair Andros. Boromir was pleased that the soldier had come so far to participate in the day’s ceremonies.

As he recovered from the unwanted intrusion into his thoughts, Boromir noticed how pleasing Eradan was. He was twenty, and had long straight hair, light brown in color. His hair and pale skin looked silvery in the moonlight. He had a close cropped beard like Boromir’s. As he drew closer, Boromir could smell wine on his breath. Eventually, he was so close to Boromir he leaned against his captain, unsteady on his feet.

He is _very_ drunk, Boromir thought. He gripped the young man’s upper arms, fearing the soldier was going to topple over.

“Take heed of my boots,” Boromir said in a friendly tone as Eradan stepped on his foot.

Eradan went slack when Boromir took hold of his arms, and with a grunt the lean body fell against him. He reached around the young man to steady him with his arms, wondering if he would end up carrying the young rascal back to the barracks.

The kiss on his jaw was completely unexpected. Eradan clung to him, kissing his cheek, his ear, whatever he could reach. He was two or three inches shorter than Boromir. Eradan’s arms circled his waist, then the young man looked up into his face. Boromir gulped. The young man had an expression he had never before seen on anyone’s face when looking at him: adoring, worshipping. Heat seared down his body.

“My lord, I wish to congratulate you. I . . . ” the young man appeared surprised at finding himself in Boromir’s arms. Boromir tightened his arms around the young man. _The lad will regret this in the morning; at the moment he is overcome by patriotism and wine . . ._ Boromir moaned softly when Eradan put his hand over Boromir’s erection.

“My lord,” Eradan whispered. “Let me.” He sank to his knees and unlaced Boromir’s breeches, taking Boromir into his mouth. Boromir moaned again, surrendering to the lips and tongue caressing him. Gods it felt good . . . it had been so long . . . two years since his night with Iorlas and Galdor.

Eradan took Boromir’s entire length into his wet mouth and sucked vigorously. There was nothing uncertain about his movements; he had done it before.

“I’m going to come,” Boromir whispered. He was not sure how the young man would react to a mouthful of his seed. His warning inspired the young man to suck harder.

Boromir felt the end of his cock touch the back of Eradan’s throat, and he came swiftly, leaning back against the wall for support. The young man swallowed it all and kept his mouth on Boromir, licking him clean. He did up Boromir’s breeches, then stood, kissing Boromir on the lips.

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have done it. Thank you. I am sorry.” The young man stammered an apology that Boromir barely heard. Eradan kissed Boromir quickly one last time, and unsteadily walked away.

Boromir leaned back against the wall to catch his breath. He barely knew Eradan, yet the young man had taken him in his mouth . . . and then thanked him!

He resolved to think about it later, for his painful emotions were stilled at last.

He could sleep.

***

Boromir looked at the pile of documents on his desk at Cair Andros and cursed. He had prepared a long report for Denethor, but towards the end his hand had cramped and his writing was illegible. His father would be able to read it; his father’s counselors would not. He needed a copy of it, and quickly. He called his lieutenant to him and asked him to provide a man immediately.

Half an hour later, his lieutenant entered with Eradan in tow. “This man is a fair copyist, my lord,” his lieutenant said. “I have cleared his schedule for the next day or two, if that will be sufficient.”

“It will be sufficient,” Boromir said, not looking at Eradan. He had stayed away from the young man, as difficult as that was on Cair Andros, an island fortress in the midst of the Anduin.

The lieutenant bowed and left. Eradan stood by the door, looking at him uncertainly.

“Please be seated,” Boromir said, gesturing to a stool by his writing desk. “I’m sorry to give you such a trivial, unsoldierly task,” he added with a smile.

The smile was returned twofold by Eradan, and a thrill went through Boromir. It had been two months since Eradan had come upon him in the Citadel. “He caught me at a vulnerable moment,” Boromir reassured himself. “He will not get past my defenses this time.”

He made space for Eradan at his table and soon the young man was hard at work copying the reports. Out of the corner of his eye, Boromir observed that the man was indeed a skilled copyist, speedily writing an even fairer hand than that of his brother.

They worked for an hour in almost complete silence, Eradan occasionally asking for help in deciphering Boromir’s scrawl.

Late in the afternoon, Boromir realized with embarrassment that he had offered Eradan not a bite to eat or a drop to drink. Thirty minutes later, they were tucking into a meal. Boromir ate hungrily, as he had not dined except for a cake or two that morning.

After the meal, they went back to work. Boromir hoped he would get used to Eradan’s presence, yet he found the man’s proximity bothered him increasingly. There was something so attractive about the young man as he gnawed on his quill, getting ink on his lips, his hand flying over the parchment.

“Who was your teacher?” Boromir asked abruptly. Eradan stared at him blankly, as if the question was as unseemly as it was unexpected.

“My mother,” Eradan said at last. A flush rose up his throat and over his face. Boromir did not understand Eradan’s embarrassment, and then it occurred to him: the man had at first thought Boromir was questioning him about another one of his talents! It was easy to guess what he had been thinking of when Boromir asked his question.

Boromir laughed out loud. “Your mother was a skilled copyist, then.” He rose and went around the desk to stand next to Eradan. “I have never seen anyone write so quickly and so well.”

Eradan turned in his chair and looked at Boromir. It was happening again. The young man’s face had the admiring, venerating look that made him feel ten feet tall. He bent down and kissed Eradan on the lips.

Eradan flinched, though he did not try to move away. Boromir wondered if the young man thought him disinclined to men.

There were soldiers who preferred women who would nevertheless take advantage of the soldiers who preferred men -- when they could get no better. Apparently, Eradan thought Boromir one of them: his captain would condescend to be brought to fulfillment in his mouth, but would never kiss him. Kisses were for women.

Boromir knew that young men like Eradan were so used, and for a moment he was grateful to Mardil, that the older man had not used him such. _He loved you; never forget that._

Boromir pulled the young man up out of his chair and into his arms, showing Eradan what a kiss could be. A surge of dizzying power swept through him as Eradan trembled in his arms. He wanted to caress the young man all over, show him the delights of the flesh.

Just not at the moment. His need to take Eradan filled him and blotted out all else. He looked at the cot. Impossible. It would collapse. The table was better. He went to the door and secured it, then turned Eradan so the young man was facing the table, pushing down on him so that Eradan’s upper body leaned over it.

Boromir stood behind him and pressed his erection against Eradan’s buttocks. Immediately the young man bent forward so that his upper body was prone on the table. Boromir pulled Eradan’s breeches down to his knees, undid his own, then scooped up butter left over from the meal. Quickly he spread it over Eradan’s opening, over his own erection, and pushed in in one thrust.

Eradan muffled his cry by biting his sleeve, his head pillowed on his arms. Boromir pummeled the young man with his erection. The feeling of dominance, which always came over him during the act, swelled to an unprecedented level. He put his hands on the back of Eradan’s neck, forcing the man down while he took him at a brutal pace. Eradan was yielding to him, but it was not enough. He wanted more. He stripped Eradan of his boots and leggings, then lifted the young man’s legs up so he could spread them further apart, holding Eradan’s lower body while the young man’s upper body rested on the table. This was better. He could at last thrust as hard as he liked . . .

His orgasm was so sharp, so complete, he was unable to keep silent. A low groan escaped his lips. As soon as he could remember his own name and where he was, he pulled out of Eradan and let go of him.

He had no wish to bestow tender words or caresses on Eradan. The young man had gotten what he wanted; the body beneath him had responded fully to his lust. Shakily, Eradan unbent himself and turned, revealing he had come all over himself and the table. Boromir smiled. Fortunately, none of the work Eradan had done earlier was harmed.

“Wash yourself, then you may go,” Boromir said. Fascinated, he watched the young man nod obediently, his face ablaze with devotion. How could he inspire such feeling in a man? It was unfathomable. Boromir gently touched his cheek. “You gave perfect satisfaction,” he said in a low voice. Eradan’s face flushed with pride.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

It was late afternoon when Boromir rode in through the city gates, accompanied by twenty men, Eradan among them, for the young man now took notes during their meetings.

There was one problem with being the Captain of the White Tower, Boromir reflected. It meant he spent a great deal of time in Minas Tirith. When he met with his captains and the Lord of the City, Minas Tirith was invariably the location.

Boromir planned to stay in the city for as short a time as possible, though he doubted he could get away in less than a week. There were too many demands on his time.

He would use his little leisure time wisely. Although he had turned down Galdor’s offer, he wondered if his friends would give him the next best thing: their bed without them in it.

For he wanted to have time with Eradan when he wasn’t counting the minutes. In the last three months, they had had brief encounters once a week, and rarely did Eradan find satisfaction -- at least physically.

Between bending Eradan over the table and having Eradan kneel before him, Boromir learned more of the young soldier. As he suspected, Eradan had lain with men who were not interested in him as a lover, only in his ability to give them release when they were far from home. The most common experience he had was taking other men into his mouth or simply using his hand. The men never kissed him. If there were other men like himself, he had never met one. He still did not accept Boromir to be like himself, and Boromir encouraged him in that view. It was safer. Let Eradan think he was being used simply because he was there.

Boromir _was_ using the young man, no doubt of that. Their furtive meetings were all for his pleasure, not Eradan’s. That would change, Boromir vowed, if Galdor and Iorlas would give up their bed to him one afternoon, or even a night. His guilt over his treatment of Eradan had been growing steadily.

He walked up the long tunnel to the Citadel after dismounting his horse on the sixth level, letting a groom lead her away to the stables. He had ridden Vingilot, although she was aging, and he never rode her in battle anymore.

As he crossed the courtyard in the Citadel, he saw Faramir, and he was relieved he would be able to greet his brother here, not under the gaze of Denethor’s staff. They embraced as always, and then Boromir tried it at last: he slid an index finger up Faramir’s sleeve and stroked the smooth skin on the inside of Faramir’s wrist.

Faramir, innocently gripping his hand, did the same. As Faramir’s finger stroked Boromir’s wrist, Boromir finally saw what had long escaped him in Faramir’s eyes. _I love you._ A small smile flitted on and off Faramir’s lips, the same expression he might have had years ago when Boromir found him hiding in a childish game. _You caught me._

Faramir put a companionable arm over his shoulders as they walked. Only the two of them were aware that Boromir was leaning against Faramir for support, struggling not to stumble. Faramir spoke in an ordinary voice of ordinary things, not a word of which Boromir could remember a minute later.

***

He found Galdor before the day ended, and breathlessly asked for the use of his lodging. Galdor agreed, though Boromir thought his friend looked unusually tense. “I can do so until six hours after sunset. Iorlas and I will go to a tavern and return late. Will that be sufficient?”

It would give Boromir at least two hours with Eradan, an eternity compared to what they were used to, so he agreed swiftly.

“There are two beds, by the way. Take the smaller one -- we don’t use it,” Galdor said, finally smiling.

***

Finding Eradan in the mess, Boromir told him where to come that night. They would arrive separately, Boromir arriving first, two hours after sunset.

***

Boromir examined Iorlas’s and Galdor’s new lodging. It was the upper story of a large home divided into smaller apartments, most of the rooms taken by soldiers. An elderly widow lived in the largest set of rooms and provided cooking and washing for all of them. It was a cozy arrangement, and Boromir gave a fleeting thought of approval to the old woman’s industry, taking advantage of the many houses of the great city that stood empty.

The rooms that Galdor and Iorlas let were the finest, well separated from the other rooms. The thick stone floors blocked all sound, and the windows faced Mount Mindolluin, not the homes nearby. There was a private entrance in the back up an alarmingly steep staircase.

At three hours to midnight, Boromir heard Eradan at the door.

He let the young man in and showed him about quickly. They had to be prepared to explain their presence there. Their story would be simple enough -- they had come to see Galdor and Iorlas, not knowing the men were out at a tavern, and were waiting for them.

Boromir spread out wine bottles and glasses as if they were expecting a night of drinking with old friends, then he and Eradan had a glass of wine. He could see that Eradan was extremely tense.

Boromir forced himself to take things slowly, but a fierce need was burning in him. _Faramir loves me._ He desperately wanted to tell someone, although he feared he would be unable to tell even Galdor at that moment, had the tall man been there.

He rose from the couch and pulled Eradan to his feet. He embraced the young man and kissed him passionately, running his hands all over Eradan’s body. The young man had never been caressed so thoroughly. Boromir felt a strange combination of hunger and tenderness. He wanted to ravish Eradan but so gently. Anger swelled in him when he thought of the young man’s mistreatment by the other soldiers. Eradan may have been their willing partner, but he had received so little in return.

He led the young man into the smaller of the bedrooms. It was full of Iorlas’s belongings, as if the room were in use. The larger room with Galdor’s belongings was where the two men slept.

The small bed was enormous after their constrained lovemaking in Cair Andros. They lay on the bed, rolling about in delight. Then Boromir seized Eradan in his arms and kissed him. He had not undressed except for removing his boots and belt, for he wanted to proceed slowly, undressing himself and Eradan one garment at a time. Before Eradan had arrived, he had made sure oil was under the bed, and he had brought wine into the room, so that they would not need to leave it.

Eradan wound around him, clinging to him, as if fearing Boromir might vanish. Slowly, Boromir stripped off more and more of their clothing.

When he finally pressed his naked body against a completely undressed Eradan, the young man climaxed instantly. Boromir laughed and cleaned them both up, and assured him it was a commonplace event. The young man was not quickly consoled, however.

“You must find me . . . coarse,” Eradan said, although he could not keep himself from pressing his body against Boromir even as he spoke the words. “I know, Boromir, that you do this only because it is not possible for you to lie with a woman. You could not risk getting a woman with child . . . ”

Boromir laughed loudly, frightening the young man. “Eradan, Eradan! What do you think I am? A man like the others you have known, who make use of you because their wives are hundreds of miles away?” Eradan paled and Boromir cursed himself silently. He kissed Eradan sensually until the young man relaxed in his arms again.

“Eradan, you are more beautiful to me than any maid could ever be,” Boromir whispered. “Do you understand?”

The young man’s face broke out in an enormous smile, and Boromir laughed as he felt Eradan, hard again, pressing into his thigh. “This time, we won’t waste it,” he said.

***

Three hours later, Boromir sat on the couch, alone, wondering if he should stay there until Galdor and Iorlas returned. Eradan had left moments before. Boromir poured a glass of wine and drank it quickly, immediately pouring another.

The evening had gone well at first. Partly to reassure Eradan, and partly to pleasure him, Boromir had taken the young man into his mouth. His obvious enjoyment of the act had overcome the last of Eradan’s doubts, and for the next two hours they had made love until they were damp with sweat.

At the end, Boromir had taken Eradan, the two of them face to face for the first time, Eradan below him. Although he did not use as much force as he usually did, Boromir was still overcome by the sensation he always had: a visceral thrill at having a man in his power. It boosted his sexual pleasure, frightening in its intensity.

And yet it was a remarkably gentle coupling by their standards, with Eradan’s legs wrapped around his waist, their lips pressed together.

As soon as they had climaxed together, mere moments apart, Eradan had pulled away from him and shocked him by bursting into tears.

The young man had dressed hurriedly, refusing to explain as Boromir gently, and then angrily, demanded to know the reason for his grief. At last, when Boromir took his arms and shook him, he spoke.

“You touch me as if you love me, but you don’t,” Eradan said. His tears flowed steadily over his handsome face.

Boromir was dumbstruck. He let go of the young man and sat on the bed as Eradan finished dressing. He pulled on his breeches and followed Eradan to the door, though he had thought of nothing to say. There was no rejoinder to be made.

Eradan went to open the door, and looked back at him sadly. “You should get away from the door. Someone might see you,” he muttered. His defeated tone stoked Boromir’s self-loathing, and Boromir fed the flames with glass after glass of wine until Galdor and Iorlas arrived.

***

After greeting him, the two men took in the situation at a glance. The house smelled of sweaty sex, and Boromir, clad only in his breeches, was well on his way to being drunk. He could not remember the last time he had been this drunk. When he had been made captain? No, that had been mild compared to this. He was drunker than he had ever been in his life. He stood up and the room tilted a little. He sat down hurriedly.

“No more for you,” Iorlas announced, and replaced the wine with water. “Drink it or your head will pain you tomorrow.” Boromir drank the water down greedily. He immediately felt a little better.

“Your evening did not turn out as planned?” Galdor asked warily. He sat next to Boromir on the couch. Iorlas sat opposite them.

“Not at all. It went exactly as planned. I gave my lover the best night of his life,” Boromir said, trying not to sound self-pitying and failing miserably.

Iorlas grinned. “As he is not here, we will have to take your word for it.”

“Perhaps you should stay here tonight,” Galdor said, nervously. Iorlas rose and left to take a look at the smaller bedroom. They could hear his cry of dismay when he saw the wreck of the bed.

Galdor moved closer to Boromir on the couch and whispered tensely. “Boromir, is Faramir all right?’

Boromir stared at him for a moment, and then sat up as straight as he could. “Eradan. That was who was with me tonight. From the company in Cair Andros.”

Galdor visibly relaxed. “Eradan. I had noticed him.” He smiled faintly, leaving no doubt of the kind of notice he had taken.

“Please let me stay here,” Boromir whispered. “If I went back to the Citadel, Faramir would have a late night visitor he was not expecting.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cushions. He relaxed a little, thinking of Faramir. Then he remembered Eradan’s tear streaked face and felt a stab of shame.

He had learned a sharp lesson. He would never reveal so much of himself to a lover again. Except one.

“Well, then, are _you_ all right?” Galdor asked.

“I’ll be fine. Eradan wanted more than I could give.”

Galdor sighed. “Poor Eradan. I should have told him what a breaker of hearts you are. Iorlas and I know it well.” He gave Boromir a teasing look, but Boromir’s mind was elsewhere.

“Faramir loves me,” Boromir said abruptly. He could hear Iorlas in the small bedroom, changing the linens on the bed. “I mean that he loves me . . . ”

“I know what you mean,” Galdor said. “How do you know this?”

“He touched my wrist,” Boromir said. He closed his eyes again and smiled, leaning back on the cushions. He heard Galdor snort.

***

**June 3006 T.A.**

Later that month, Boromir made Faramir Captain of Ithilien. It was no preferential favor; he knew that Faramir would excel in the assignment. The land east of the Anduin was rapidly falling under the Enemy’s shadow. It was a battle that would have to be fought with intelligence and stealth.

Shortly after he became Captain of the White Tower, his father Denethor had revealed his fears to Boromir at last: the Steward expected that Mordor would move against them in his lifetime. How he knew this he never told Boromir. Not that Boromir needed to know; he could see the signs as well.

It was through Ithilien that the Enemy would attack. Sometimes Boromir woke up in a panic, dreaming that Faramir would not get out in time.

***

**3009 T.A.**

Boromir was eating his noon meal in the Third Company mess when he caught sight of a tall, familiar figure.

“My lord,” Galdor said. He inclined his head slightly, his hand upon his breast.

Boromir grinned. “Where are your shadows?” Galdor was never far from Iorlas or Beregond, or both. All three men were now in the Third Company of the Guard.

“Would you like me to take a message to either of them?”

Boromir was surprised at the curt reply. “No.”

“Good.”

There was a moment of silence, then Boromir asked Galdor if he would join him later in the mess, before the evening meal. “Invite the brothers, of course.”

Galdor shook his head. “I am on duty until three hours after sunset. You could come to my lodging later.”

“That would be agreeable. Better, even. I will dine with my father tonight. There will be more time after.”

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

“If you don’t come tonight, don’t come at all.”

Galdor stalked off.

***

For the rest of the day, Boromir mulled over Galdor’s rudeness. Galdor was not known for being gentle, but Boromir had never seen him rude to those he loved.

As he left the White Tower, he saw a woman coming up the steps that led to the butteries below. She was extremely familiar, and extremely pregnant: Beregond’s wife, Gwirith. Before he could greet her, she saw him and came to him, smiling.

“My lord! Iorlas will be so glad to hear that you are in the city.”

“Congratulations on the new addition to your family,” Boromir said, bowing.

“Thank you, my lord. I will tell Iorlas you are here as soon as I am home.”

“Home?” Boromir’s ears pricked up.

“Yes. Iorlas is living with us again. Rooming with another soldier did not work out for him, I’m afraid. The man was terribly pig-headed. And I think it has something to do with the baby,” she added in a lower voice. “He is so worried about me. Don’t tell him you saw me out of the house. Please?”

Boromir agreed and watched Gwirith waddle off.

Well, well, well. That explained the tall man’s surliness!

***

That evening, Boromir climbed the steep staircase to Iorlas’s and Galdor’s lodging. Galdor opened the door before he had a chance to knock.

The tall man looked as well as ever, though he must be forty, Boromir thought. Boromir had always assumed the man was ten years his senior, though he had never asked. Iorlas, Galdor’s lover, was three years older than Boromir.

Or was it Iorlas, Galdor’s former lover? Boromir decided to leave the subject alone. Let Galdor bring it up if he wished.

“I knew you would come, Boromir, after I was so rude to you, if only to spite me,” Galdor said. “I apologize, but things here have been . . . difficult.”

Boromir looked at him in an encouraging, questioning fashion.

“Iorlas is staying with his brother at the moment. Gwirith is about to have her first child, and Iorlas insisted that he be there to lend a hand.”

Boromir made sympathetic sounds, noting the discrepancy. Galdor made Iorlas’s absence sound temporary; Gwirith made it sound permanent.

“That must be inconvenient for you,” Boromir said. “When is the baby due?”

“Any day now. Iorlas will be back soon after,” Galdor said. His falsely hearty tone broke for a moment and expressed real yearning.

Boromir settled down to get Galdor thoroughly drunk. His friend was in pain, and keeping it in, as usual. Boromir was distressed on Galdor’s behalf, but also on his own. He had introduced Galdor and Iorlas eight years earlier.

For years, he had found the two men’s love for each other a secret comfort. They had everything he did not. It was rare for men like themselves, men who loved men, to have a home together. Galdor and Iorlas were the only men he knew who had achieved it.

Galdor was eager to drink, which surprised Boromir. He had never seen Galdor have more than two or three glasses of wine or ale at a time, which, because of the tall man’s size, was not enough to even make him giddy.

They sat back on couches and looked out the window, although there was little to see. The windows faced Mount Mindolluin, not the nearby homes on the fifth level of Minas Tirith. A pleasant view during the day, at night it was a deep gray gloom, with the outline of the mountain looming faintly darker.

Galdor’s and Iorlas’s lodging, the former master suite of a Gondorian noble family which had died out long ago, was as pleasant as he remembered. There was no kitchen, but Galdor had had food brought up in case Boromir had missed his meal. He was touched that Galdor remembered that the demands on his time meant he frequently went without.

Galdor rose to refill his wine glass and brought back the bottle. He topped off Boromir’s glass. When he sat back down, he sat only a foot away from Boromir. His long arm extended across the top of the couch.

Boromir was intensely aware of his proximity. It had been eight years since he had shared a bed with Galdor.

Boromir was now an expert at taking his pleasure hastily with the young soldiers who idolized him. It relieved his tension and led to no hurt feelings. His partners were satisfied with his brief attentions, and he made sure they expected no more of him.

As his true love was unobtainable, this was best for him, Boromir thought.

Galdor did not fit into this scheme, for Boromir was unable to keep the man at a distance. When Galdor touched him, feelings stirred that he had spent years burying.

There were other problems: Boromir no longer let another man take him, and he was certain that Galdor was the same way. If the two of them ended up in bed together, it could be quite an interesting wrestling match . . .

“Boromir. What are you smiling about?”

Boromir looked at Galdor. The tall man’s long black hair was loose on his shoulders, his thin linen shirt was nearly transparent, and his breeches were so snug Boromir thought he could see everything beneath them. If I didn’t know better, I would say he was trying to seduce me, Boromir thought. He could see dark nipples through the thin shirt.

It had been seven years since he had rejected Galdor’s offer in Cair Andros, and while the tall man and Iorlas had flirted with him, they had never made a serious attempt to get him to change his mind. They seemed to have reconciled themselves to Boromir’s self-denial.

“Nothing. This is good wine.” He stared at Galdor’s lips. They were full and sharply cut, out of place in the stern warrior face.

“It must be good wine, indeed,” Galdor said, and moved closer. His arm slid off the back of the couch onto Boromir’s shoulders. “You have been staring at my mouth for some time.”

Boromir tried to jest. “I always stare at your mouth, Galdor.” The heavy weight of Galdor’s arm excited him. Galdor’s hand rested on his upper arm.

“Interesting. I always stare at yours,” Galdor whispered, though he was now too close to do so.

Galdor’s lips touched his. Boromir didn’t move. Then he moved only his lips, rubbing them against the softness of Galdor’s lips. Ah, that felt good. He caressed Galdor’s lips with his own, enjoying the feel of the soft flesh giving under light pressure.

“Boromir? Have I mentioned that Iorlas won’t be here tonight?”

“I don’t remember,” Boromir said, pulling back, dizzy. He rarely kissed the men he took, and he never kissed them like this.

“Iorlas and I had a fight,” Galdor said. His fingers slid between the laces of Boromir’s shirt.

“Hmmm.”

“He left me because I won’t let him take me.”

Boromir was suddenly alert. “What!”

Galdor grinned. “He asked. I said no.”

Boromir smiled challengingly. “I no longer allow anyone to take me, Galdor.”

Galdor said, “I know. That is why I invited you here tonight.”

Boromir said, “I don’t understand.” Understand? He couldn’t even think. Galdor’s fingers were stroking his belly just above his crotch.

“Boromir, I want you to take me tonight.”

A vision of Galdor below him, crying out, made Boromir breathless. “Really?” he said, his voice immensely eager.

Galdor smiled. “Yes, my Captain-General. If I am going to submit, I want to start with you.”

Boromir grabbed him and kissed him hard. As if in anticipation of the events to come, Galdor opened his mouth and let Boromir take control of the kiss.

“I am serious, Boromir. I am going to try it with Iorlas, but I don’t want that to be my first time. It will make both of us nervous. It would be his first time, too. A recipe for disaster.”

“I know how to do it,” Boromir said, trying to crawl into Galdor’s lap. He was aware of having been manipulated into abandoning his scruples, but at that moment he couldn’t have cared less.

“From what I have been hearing, that is an understatement.” Galdor slid his hand down to Boromir’s crotch and found his captain as hard as a rock. “Though I have a feeling I’m going to wish I chose someone smaller for the job.”

***

They kissed and touched each other on the couch, Boromir growing almost delirious. When he was taking a man, he felt a surge of aggression, a desire to dominate, and he sensed that Galdor would bring that out in him like never before. He told himself he would be as gentle as possible, but he didn’t know how possible it would be. An intense desire to subjugate Galdor to his passion was building in him already.

Galdor led him to the guest room, not the bedroom he had shared with Iorlas, and stripped off his clothes. “I have everything ready.”

Boromir expected to see wine, oil, a pitcher of water, towels, and a basin, but not the selection of straps laid out on the bed.

Galdor saw where he was looking. “Those are for me, not you.”

“You want me to bind you?”

“I think you will _have_ to bind me.” He held Boromir, now stripped as well, in a tight embrace. “No offense, Captain, but you are not strong enough to control me without aid. Once you start, promise you will not stop. No matter what I say.”

Boromir shook his head. “You may not like it.”

“True, but it won’t kill me, will it? We’ll make sure I can’t get away if I change my mind.”

Boromir breathed faster. Not only was he going to get to take Galdor, but Galdor bound . . .

The tall man sighed. “Something tells me that I’m going to wish I chose someone less enthusiastic, as well as smaller.”

***

Boromir tied up Galdor according to the tall man’s instructions, leaving enough slack for him to move his body slightly. He was amused to see a veritable tangle of cords at the head and foot of the bed. His very first encounter with Galdor twelve years earlier had involved the use of restraints, though at that time Galdor had relied only on his superior strength. Boromir chuckled at the thought that Galdor could not resist using his favorite confederates, even on himself.

The tall man was face down. “You can start,” he said serenely.

Boromir pounced.

“Can you raise your hips?” Boromir asked.

Galdor was able to do so by a foot.

“That’s good,” Boromir said. He draped himself over Galdor’s back.

“Remember, Boromir, you must finish. You have promised.”

“Yes, “ Boromir croaked.

In spite of his urgent desire, he would not rush things. He started out kissing Galdor’s neck and shoulders, careful not to rub his erection on Galdor’s buttocks, as tempting as that was. Boromir had never been allowed to even caress Galdor’s buttocks in the past. Galdor had probably never had the area stimulated. He licked his lips.

Boromir poured out oil into his hands and massaged Galdor, who made appreciative sounds, even when Boromir massaged his buttocks. Once the tall man was relaxed, he replaced his hands with his lips and tongue, nipping, kissing, and licking all over the back of Galdor’s body.

Then came the crucial moment. Boromir let his tongue trail down Galdor’s spine, and kept going. The small opening yielded slightly to his tongue. The aggression surged. His tongue would be first. He pressed his tongue in, forgetting his intention to gently tease Galdor to prepare him.

The tall man grunted. It did not sound like pleasure.

“Stop,” Galdor said.

Boromir pulled himself up, lying on Galdor’s back. “I’ve just started.”

“I don’t like it,” Galdor said flatly.

“We know that,” Boromir breathed in his ear. “That’s why you have never done it. You have never done it, correct? Not even a finger?”

“That’s right,” Galdor said. He attempted to move his buttocks away from Boromir’s erection.

“Then it’s good you are tied up, because I’m not going to stop,” Boromir said. He went back to teasing and licking. Galdor didn’t move, radiating disapproval.

In spite of his words, Boromir had already resolved to break his promise to his friend and not take him if it truly made Galdor uncomfortable. He had no interest in an unwilling partner.

He slid his hand under Galdor and found him rock hard. “I thought you didn’t like it!”

“Iorlas has been gone for two months,” Galdor said. His voice wavered slightly. “Of course I’m hard, with you slithering all over my back.”

Boromir was encouraged and went back to licking Galdor’s opening. He kept his hand under Galdor so he could stroke the man’s erection, though Galdor did not lift his body up enough for Boromir to take hold of him. The aggression built in him again and soon he was making a vigorous assault with his tongue.

At last, Galdor lifted his hips up a mere half inch. Boromir was able to get his hand around Galdor’s cock. There was a faint sigh from Galdor. Boromir pushed his tongue in as far as he could.

“Boromir,” Galdor groaned. “Would you stop if I asked you to?”

“No,” Boromir lied. He slid a wet finger across Galdor’s opening, then lay on top of Galdor, who turned his head as much as he could so Boromir could kiss him. Boromir slid in his finger to the second joint.

At last! Galdor moved below him, rotating his hips to rub his erection on the bed. The movement stopped immediately. Boromir slid his finger in and out slowly. Galdor was soaked with his saliva and he had no need to use the oil yet.

“Admit it, Galdor, you want me inside you.” Boromir whispered.

“No,” Galdor said firmly, keeping his hips still.

“You’ve probably dreamed of being taken by your captain since the first day you met me . . .” At his words, Galdor moved up to meet his finger. Aha! Boromir hardened his voice. “You’ll take it and like it, Guard.”

He slid two fingers in, angling them down. Galdor made a faint sound and moved up to meet him. “Who is your captain?” Boromir whispered.

“You are,” Galdor gasped.

“I don’t really need these cords, do I, Galdor?” Boromir spoke half seriously, half teasingly. Lustful excitement swirled in him as he realized Galdor wanted Boromir to take him, that the restraints had merely been a way for Galdor to pretend indifference to the act. “I order you to raise your hips. Now.”

Galdor obeyed. Boromir spread oil on Galdor and on himself, then moved close, rubbing the tip of his cock along the cleft. “You will serve me, Galdor,” Boromir growled. “And like it.”

He reached below Galdor again, and was relieved to find him still hard. He pushed in slowly but steadily. Dear gods it was tight. All of Galdor’s backside was hard muscle. Boromir could feel Galdor’s every move, every squeeze, every breath . . .

He was halfway in. Just a little bit further . . .

“Boromir.” Galdor spoke with effort. “Please stop.” He sounded desperate.

Boromir pulled out carefully and kissed Galdor’s cheek.

“Boromir, what are you doing?”

“I’m stopping.”

“No! You promised!”

“I can’t do this if you find it unpleasant. I have too much pride in my abilities.”

Galdor was quiet for a time. “Then you may as well unbind me.”

Boromir cut the cords. Galdor pounced on him.

There was a brief and bitter struggle, but the end was inevitable: Boromir tied up, lying on his back.

“You promised to finish,” Galdor said, straddling Boromir’s thighs. He trickled oil onto Boromir’s erection.

“What are you doing, Galdor?” Boromir had never been bound before. Both his hands and feet were tied, and there was no slack. His arms and legs were well stretched. His erection was undeterred by the novel situation.

“I’m going to finish, since you don’t have the courage to do so,” Galdor said. He positioned himself above Boromir’s erection and pressed down on it with his buttocks.

“Ow. Don’t bend it,” Boromir gasped. “You will have to squat if you don’t want to break me.”

Galdor lowered himself fully, dragging a groan from Boromir.

Galdor panted. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Using his powerful legs, he moved up and down experimentally. Bracing himself with one hand, he grasped his erection and closed his eyes.

Boromir kept his eyes open, breathing heavily at the sight. He had almost come when Galdor took him, for Galdor was somehow taking him, even though the tall man was the one on the receiving end.

Boromir groaned as Galdor moved up and down on top of him. The tall man swiftly established a rhythm, and rubbed his cock with furiously fast strokes as he came down on Boromir.

“My captain . . . I’m so close. Wait for me . . .”

Boromir had the same sensation of letting go as when he was enclosed in a lover’s mouth, but this was hotter, faster, and wetter. Galdor gripped him. When he moved up, his muscles grasped Boromir’s erection. Galdor came down hard, the weight of the tall man bruising his hip bones.

“I can’t last much longer,” Boromir groaned. Galdor was about to draw from him the most extreme orgasm he had ever had; the sight of Galdor moving on him, taking his pleasure with determination, was more than he could bear.

Then . . . nothing. Galdor was no longer on him. Boromir glared. Galdor smiled and cut his bonds.

Boromir rolled over and positioned Galdor underneath him and buried himself in the tall man in a single movement. Galdor whimpered as Boromir thrust into him. While Galdor had moved on top of him rapidly, he could not move as fast as Boromir could kneeling behind him.

Galdor was on his knees, his upper body resting on the bed, his back arched, his buttocks in the air. The tall man was still stroking his cock. No matter how hard Boromir took him, he pushed back to meet the thrust. Boromir had never had a lover who kept up with him before; all of his previous partners had gone limp under him at this moment.

“Who do you serve, Guard?” Boromir panted out the words.

“You. Boromir. My captain,” Galdor moaned. All his resistance was gone, and he moved shamelessly to take in Boromir’s thrusts.

Boromir could barely speak. “Come for me.” Galdor obeyed with a deep groan, his muscles squeezing Boromir hard. Boromir spilled inside him and fell on him, completely drained.

***

“There was something _fitting_ about that,” Galdor murmured. They were cleaned up, sitting up in bed. Boromir’s head rested on Galdor’s chest. “You were Iorlas’s first, and now you are mine.”

“I wasn’t Iorlas’s first lover, though,” Boromir said sleepily. “He had been with a woman before that night.” His head bounced on Galdor’s chest as the tall man laughed.

“He was lying to you, my captain. You were his first everything. He was afraid you wouldn’t continue if you thought him inexperienced.”

Boromir smiled. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t have continued.”

“Have no fear,” Galdor said. “He told me you did it . . . exactly right. And I would have to agree.”

Boromir laughed. “So you believe you will be able to give him what he wants?”

“Yes. I think I’ll have him bind me, at least the first time.”

Boromir was hard again just at the thought. He was feeling extremely pleased with himself. He was beginning to doubt that yielding was at the bottom, so to speak, of Galdor and Iorlas’s quarrel, that it had all been an elaborate ruse on Galdor’s part to get Boromir to assert himself and get him back into bed after eight long years.

“Ready to try again?” Galdor whispered. He was erect again.

“Yes,” Boromir said. “But there is something I haven’t done with you yet.” He moved down and took Galdor’s cock into his mouth. It was difficult due to the size of it, especially as it was something he had done little of lately. His domination of his partners kept him from doing even this. They either found release in his hand or on their own. He liked it best when they came while he was pounding into them, without his laying a hand on them . . .

“Slower!” Galdor gasped.

Boromir couldn’t help himself; he was aggressive again as Galdor yielded to his mouth. He panted and growled around Galdor’s erection. The tall man came hard, pulling Boromir’s hair.

“Now I’m ready to try again,” Boromir said. He pulled up Galdor’s legs so he could enter him face to face. A quick application of oil, and he slid in. Galdor wrapped his arms and legs around Boromir, capturing him. Boromir came before he wanted to, urged beyond endurance by Galdor’s imprisoning limbs.

“Galdor,” he whispered. He kissed the tall man passionately, and was kissed back with equal fervor. He pulled away abruptly and sat on the edge of the bed. Galdor stroked his back.

“Are you all right, my captain?”

The title eased his heart a bit, for it put distance between them.

Now that his passion had been slaked, his mind and heart were working once again. He had avoided lying with Galdor for years because he feared that his emotions would take over. He had long fought a desire to possess the tall man: Galdor transferred to his company, at his side at all times, in his bed every night. His breath came quickly. He thought of Iorlas and sighed.

Boromir thought of several witty responses, then gave up. “No.”

“You can stay here tonight, if you wish,” Galdor said.

“No,” Boromir said. “I can’t stay here.”

“I want you to stay here, Boromir,” Galdor said. “Please stay.”

“Galdor, I’ve told you this before. I cannot be . . . detached with you.”

“You are satisfied with the young men you play with?” Galdor’s voice was cool.

“No, I am not. That does not matter. They are all I can have.”

Galdor shook his head. “You’re making a mistake. You should have a lover.”

“I have a lover.”

“A lover you hold hands with once a year, if you’re lucky.”

Boromir flushed. The description was accurate.

Galdor’s warm grey eyes were dark. He looked magnificent in the bed, covered only to his waist by a blanket. Boromir moved closer to kiss him farewell. He was both alarmed and ecstatic when Galdor seized him tightly and kissed him. Within seconds he was lying on his back with Galdor on top of him, his legs wrapped around Galdor’s waist. Galdor’s erection pressed into his stomach.

“Boromir, I love you,” Galdor said.

Boromir shut his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“Why do you think you are unable to lie with me with your feelings untouched? It’s because I love you.”

“You love Iorlas. He loves you.”

“Yes, but I love you as well.”

Boromir’s breathing hoarsened as Galdor kissed his neck. “You don’t understand, Galdor. I can’t let you make love to me.” _I don’t want to feel love. It hurts too much._

“Truly?” Galdor studied him.

“Truly, I cannot.”

Boromir gasped and struggled as Galdor pulled cords down from the top of the bed and bound his hands together. The cords were tight before he had a chance to react. Galdor bent Boromir’s knees up and looped cords around his knees, above and below the knee caps. Galdor pulled down on the cords and his legs went higher.

“Galdor!” Boromir shouted. “I did not give my permission for this.” He was stunned at how swiftly Galdor had moved.

“True, you did not. You said you could not let me make love to you. And now, you will not be letting me, but we will be making love regardless.”

An oiled finger entered Boromir and probed, touching his sensitive spot, stroking it. Galdor was on top of him, sucking hard on his neck. Boromir cried out in frustration. He could not lower his legs or move his hands. There was enough slack in the cords to let him turn over, but not with Galdor on top of him.

“I won’t hurt you, Boromir,” Galdor murmured into his neck.

“You _are_ hurting . . . me,” Boromir hissed. His words ended in a moan as Galdor’s fingers moved inside him. Unthinkingly, he lifted his chin to give Galdor’s mouth easier access to his neck. Galdor’s cock was at his entrance and pushing in. At another time, Boromir would have admired the restraint Galdor used, entering him slowly and painlessly, but he wasn’t capable of charitable thoughts at that moment.

“Damn you!” Boromir cursed. “Don’t make me feel . . .” Galdor plainly remembered exactly how Boromir liked it. Hard and fast. His teeth scraped Boromir’s neck and his fingers twisted Boromir’s nipples. Boromir moaned without restraint, and once the first moan broke free, he couldn’t stop.

Galdor paused for a moment while Boromir breathed raggedly. Abruptly, his knees were pulled up higher as Galdor tightened the cords. Then Galdor set a faster pace. Something disintegrated inside of Boromir. The emotions he kept in check every hour, every day, were unleashed. His moans became cries, and he thought he might be weeping. Yet Galdor felt so good inside him he could think of absolutely nothing but how good it felt. Galdor’s hand was on his erection, pumping it. Neither spoke; the room was filled with Boromir’s cries of want. Boromir came, screaming Galdor’s name. Galdor swiftly released the cords and Boromir wrapped his legs and arms around Galdor as the tall man came inside him.

They rolled onto their sides, still locked together. Boromir’s face was sticky with dried tears. Galdor regarded him uncertainly, as if unsure of Boromir’s reaction to what had happened. They pulled apart. Galdor brought them both water to drink, and damp cloths to clean themselves with.

“I will stay the night,” Boromir said. “But this cannot happen again.”

Galdor’s face, which had brightened at his first words, darkened. “Why not, Boromir?”

Boromir lay down next to him. He had only hinted at it before, but now he would make it plain. “I will tell you only once, then we will never speak of it again. I love you, and I want you, and if you give yourself to me, you will never see Iorlas again. You would be mine, and mine only. Now do you understand?” He watched Galdor’s face pale and then Galdor nodded.

Tears formed in Galdor’s eyes. “Boromir, may I think about this?”

Boromir’s heart leapt when Galdor did not reject his proposal instantly.

“No, you may not, because I will not let it happen. You and Iorlas belong together.” Saying the words was like dying a little.

They slept in each others arms for the last time.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

Two days passed before Boromir went to see Iorlas. He arrived at the old house, in the second level of the city, right after dinner. He considered giving his regards to Beregond first, but didn’t feel up to it. He went around the house, down the slope to the rear, where Iorlas had his rooms. There was a good view from the back of the house, as the hill fell away steeply.

Iorlas greeted him eagerly, though Boromir could see in the slender man the same sorrow he had seen in his lover.

Although Iorlas was three years older than Boromir, he looked younger, his pale skin almost untouched by the sun. His hair was dark and long, finer and silkier than Galdor’s, and his eyes were light grey. He was the same height as Boromir, but weighed at least two stone less, although he was well-knit.

“How is Gwirith?”

“Gone. They are at the Houses of Healing. The baby is not in the right position, and her labor has started.”

Boromir felt queasy, glad he was a man. “You will not be with them?”

“No,” Iorlas said. “Beregond insisted I stay away. He thinks I am under the weather and need coddling.”

Boromir looked Iorlas over critically. The already slender man had lost weight, and he was paler than he should be. “Your brother is right. You do not look well.”

Iorlas sat on a couch and slumped. “Galdor and I had a fight.”

“He told me about it.”

“What did he tell you?” Iorlas’s eyes sparked with anger.

“That you left because he would not yield to you.”

“He wouldn’t even let me kiss him there. It was absurd. How could I not want to? You’ve seen him.”

Boromir managed a laugh as waves of guilt washed over him. Could he have convinced Galdor to belong to him? Could he still?

“Iorlas, he has changed his mind. He will let you do whatever you wish.”

Wild joy came over Iorlas’s features, and Boromir felt like a worm for even considering ruining Iorlas’s life by taking his lover.

“This calls for a celebration! I’m going to be an uncle, and Galdor and I will be together again!” Iorlas ran to the kitchen of the main house and returned with wine, glasses, bread, cheese, and fruit, all heaped on a tray.

For two hours, he sat with Iorlas, drinking wine. After the first few minutes, he relaxed. They had known each other since Boromir was only sixteen, Iorlas nineteen, and they had much to talk about.

As the guest, Boromir had been forced to take the couch closest to the fire, even though he wasn’t enjoying the heat. Iorlas joined him, sitting down with a careless thud.

“Boromir, thank you for bringing me your message. His pig-headedness was driving me insane. It was like making love to half a person.”

Boromir laughed. “Only his front, never his back.”

“Exactly.” Iorlas looked at Boromir speculatively. “I’ve never done it. Is there anything I need to know? What if I hurt him?”

“You won’t. It is really not that difficult. Also, he said you could tie him up.”

Iorlas laughed. They were on their third glass of wine and everything was amusing. “So he still has some misgivings?”

“I’m sure he does, but he loves you, and he will overcome them.”

Iorlas’s face softened. Boromir thought the slender man had grown handsomer as he grew older. His gentle face had stronger outlines now, with high cheekbones and a beautifully curved jaw.

“Boromir,” Iorlas reached out and stroked his face. “You know that Galdor and I love you.”

Boromir nodded. “And I love you both.”

Iorlas moved close to him and embraced him. His lips tickled Boromir’s ear. “Perhaps you could teach me a few things to surprise Galdor with.” His tongue trailed down Boromir’s neck.

Boromir breathed faster. Was this a way to purge himself of his guilt? Giving himself to Iorlas? Why not? He truly did love him. He remembered the night Iorlas had comforted him, eleven years ago. Iorlas had kept him sane that night. It would feel good to return the favor. And he had held out for eight years . . .

“Please, Boromir. Show me what you know.”

He took Iorlas’s hand and led him to the bedroom. Silently, they undressed. Boromir’s skin grew hot as Iorlas’s gaze roamed over him. The slender man’s lips were parted. Boromir lay face down on the bed.

“I’m ready,” he whispered. Iorlas got on the bed next to him and stared at him.

“Boromir, what are you doing?”

“You are going to take me. You said you wanted to learn something.”

The passion on Iorlas’s face sharpened to lust. He lay on top of Boromir and for a time he stayed his movements, luxuriating in the feel of Boromir below him.

“I thought you would demonstrate on me, but this is far, far better,” he whispered. “You are so beautiful, Boromir. If you hadn’t introduced me to Galdor, I would have made a fool of myself over you. Perhaps I made a fool of myself, anyway.” He kissed the back of Boromir’s neck, then licked it and sucked on it, making Boromir writhe.

“Boromir, I want you to turn over. I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

Boromir turned over and let Iorlas kiss him. His desired surged, and he wanted to hold Iorlas down and take him that moment. He fought it, and it made his kisses frantic. Iorlas responded forcefully, gripping Boromir’s face between his hands. Then he slid his mouth lower, and made love to Boromir’s body with slow, wet kisses.

Since leaving Galdor’s bed two days earlier, Boromir had done some painful self examination. He knew that Galdor was right; he had walled himself off from something he needed. Years earlier, when he had decided not to let any man take him, he had justified it by telling himself he preferred to be dominant. But that was only part of it.

What he needed was to be in control. He could not show his casual partners emotion, or vulnerability. Or love. Indeed, he feared precisely what had happened in Galdor’s arms: a breaking down of his defenses, leaving him raw and exposed.

But he trusted Iorlas. As the soft lips moved over him, he relaxed and gave himself to the sensation. Iorlas murmured tender phrases. “My jewel. Lovely Boromir.”

“Turn over,” Iorlas said huskily. As soon as Boromir was on his stomach, Iorlas covered him, his erection pressing into Boromir’s buttocks. But he again resumed his slow, wet caresses, as if he had never tasted a man before. Boromir moaned when Iorlas’s tongue lapped at his buttocks, sliding between the cleft. Iorlas’s breath tickled the wet skin.

Abruptly, Iorlas’s arms circled his thighs at the hip and pulled him up. Iorlas buried his face. Boromir yelped in surprise, but Iorlas took no notice, using his tongue unrelentingly. Boromir was yanked higher, until only his hands were touching the bed, Iorlas on his knees behind him, upright, pulling Boromir to his face. The tip of Iorlas’s cock brushed below his breastbone.

Boromir had been pleasured this way before, but never even half so aggressively. Iorlas was taking every moment of frustration that had built up over the years and releasing it all in one go. Boromir became lightheaded, breathing fast and deep. His arms trembled as he supported himself. When his arms collapsed, Iorlas let him fall to the bed, then pressed into him, ignoring the oil, taking advantage of Boromir’s thoroughly wet opening.

That’s the right decision, Boromir thought dazedly, and then cried out when Iorlas entered him smoothly to the hilt. His body was trembling and he could do nothing more than yield to Iorlas, now that the teasing tongue had been replaced by something blessedly hard that rubbed and pressed on his sensitive area with every thrust. He reached under himself to grasp his erection and Iorlas pushed his hand away and replaced it with his own. Then Boromir lost all rational thought. Iorlas took him completely. He had expected the gentle man to be loving and slow, not fiercely possessing. Iorlas’s hand pumped him for only a minute before Boromir climaxed. With each convulsion, Iorlas hit him dead on, and he cried out repeatedly. Iorlas bit his neck gently, making a sobbing sound as he came inside Boromir.

They lay next to each other, exhausted, breathing deeply. Boromir stretched out his fingers and touched Iorlas’s hand. “I don’t think you need me to teach you anything, Iorlas.”

Iorlas laughed with smug delight. He caressed Boromir’s cheek. “I didn’t know it was going to feel that good.” He looked at Boromir tenderly. “I felt you . . . give yourself to me.”

“As if I had a choice.” Boromir grinned. Iorlas flushed with pleasure.

***

Boromir was relieved to hear that Gwirith had gone home with the new baby. She had stayed in the Houses of Healing for more than two weeks after the baby’s birth. Fortunately, the baby was a healthy boy, already resembling Beregond, even when the infant was still red and wrinkled and wailing.

Iorlas had miraculously recovered from his anxiety about the baby and had already moved most of his belongings back to his lodging with Galdor, though he announced he would be staying at least half the time with Beregond and Gwirith for the next few weeks.

“She needs me to go to the market for her, and help with the cooking, and take all the linens to the wash house, and . . . “ Boromir and Galdor listened bemusedly to the incredibly long list of chores that Iorlas considered his sister-in-law incapable of.

It was Beregond’s first night at home with his wife and child, so Iorlas had resolved to leave them alone, as the three had had no privacy in the Houses of Healing.

Boromir sat in the sitting room of Galdor’s and Iorlas’s lodging, watching firelight throw shadows on the walls. Boromir was peaceful as he looked at the two lovers sitting next to each other on the couch. They kept touching, small caresses that seemed almost accidental. Then they would fall silent for a time.

He wondered if the lovers had spoken with each other about his role in their reconciliation. He thought that they had, for they frequently looked at him with soft, loving smiles.

Boromir trusted Galdor to say nothing to Iorlas of his request for exclusive love; he had asked the tall man never to mention it again, and he knew that was sufficient. The hurt had healed somewhat, though he feared he would never be entirely free of the longing. He had given up a lover and kept his friends.

Boromir yawned. He would head back to the Citadel soon, for he was sure of one thing: it was dangerous for him to nap on their guest bed!

“Something amuses you, Boromir?” Galdor asked.

“I was thinking about your gracious hospitality,” Boromir said. The two men chuckled. Boromir rose and went to the washroom, relieving himself in the chamber pot and splashing his face and hands with water, then smoothing his clothes, before heading up the winding road to the Citadel.

When he re-entered the sitting room, it was empty. He sought his hosts half heartedly, fearing he would be interrupting something. The door of their bedroom was open, and he peeked inside.

The two men were standing by their bed, embracing. As Boromir watched, Galdor slid his hands below Iorlas’s buttocks, swiftly raising the slender man up, Iorlas wrapping his legs around Galdor’s waist. Their bodies had come together in one movement, so familiar it required no thought. Galdor bent his knees and spread his feet apart, then Iorlas leaned away, his head falling back, his hands on Galdor’s shoulders. Then Iorlas let go, his hands stretching behind him until they touched the edge of the bed. Galdor held him below the hips, his eyes closed.

Boromir watched, his mouth open. The two men were still clothed, but he thought he had never seen anything more erotic: Iorlas gripping his lover with only his legs, letting Galdor hold him suspended in air. Boromir imagined them naked, and how Galdor would move to take Iorlas in this position, with Iorlas’s head thrown back and cries coming from his lips . . .

Boromir returned to the sitting room and adjusted his clothing, which had become unaccountably tighter. “I’ll be going, then,” he said to the empty room.

As he went carefully down the treacherous steps, he held inside himself the secret fire of their love. It would warm him during the thousands of cold nights ahead.

***

**June 28, 3018 T.A.**

Faramir’s long absences were hard for Boromir to bear, except for one mercy; when they met, they rarely met at Minas Tirith. It was much more agreeable to be with Faramir out in the field, at Cair Andros, Osgiliath, or in Ithilien.

And Faramir never failed to tell him after an absence: _I love you._

One night they had dined together with members of their staff at a dark and smoky inn, seated next to each other. Boromir realized he could take Faramir’s hand under the table without being seen. For half an hour, Faramir’s hand was intertwined with his, their two hands resting in his lap. He thought of it often.

Now their lives had been turned upside down. The Enemy had moved against them, attacking them in Osgiliath with the aid of demons, riders in black, that caused both men and horse to lose their minds in fear.

Boromir was leaving on a long journey in a few days to the mythical place called Imladris, reputedly a refuge of an ancient being called Elrond the Half-elven.

Before Boromir departed on that road, he was making a trip to Henneth Annun to see Faramir. He had no illusions; he knew the journey to Imladris was one he might not return from, and he was not going to leave without saying farewell to his brother.

His heart beat faster in anticipation when he heard the falls.

***

The gesture that night was swift, as they were surrounded by men: Faramir’s finger stroked across his palm. Boromir had been unable to return it as the men pressed around him.

Among them, he saw the man he later learned was Eldacar. Eldacar looked at him with rapt attention, his lips slightly parted. The young man was tall, with long blond hair and a slender build. Boromir was drawn to the same type of man again and again. He knew why, and tried not to dwell on it.

After Eradan, Boromir was besieged by young soldiers who were drawn to him because of his beauty and his power. They had always been there, circling, but he had not noticed for several years, first because of Mardil, and then because of Faramir. Eradan had opened his eyes to their existence.

He saw no more tear streaked faces, however. Eradan had taught him caution; he never spent too much time with any of his lovers, or showed them too much affection.

Much of his skill as a leader of men lay in the nature he kept hidden from them. His men were as loyal to him as they would be to a lover. Somehow, they responded to him, sensing his love for them, perhaps. He seduced them all.

Faramir was different. His men held him at arms length at first, but with time they regarded their captain with a loyal fanaticism. In the eyes of the Rangers of Ithilien, Captain Faramir could do no wrong. _Fortunately, they are right_ , Boromir thought, with a grin.

The two brothers looked at each other across the cave. They had meant to retire to the back to have a quiet discussion, but that was impossible with the men clamoring for Boromir’s attention. Faramir gave him a small nod, and Boromir understood. They would wait, and give this time to the men.

As Boromir spoke to the Rangers of Ithilien, he relaxed, drawing laughs with tales of pratfalls and battlefield misunderstandings. The men chuckled as he talked about killing his first Orc by accident, the Orc simply running onto the point of his sword. They knew how chaos reigned in battle. All they could do was hone their skills and trust to luck.

Boromir got away at last. He had drunk ale sparingly, although there was always a man ready to press another mug into his hand. He verified that his meager luggage was in what Faramir had called the map room, then left to search for his brother.

It had been years since he had been in Henneth Annun, and he was quickly confused. He kept turning into dead ends. He stopped to turn back the way he came, if he could remember it. He rounded a corner and came face to face with Eldacar.

Boromir smiled as the man pretended to have encountered him by chance. He had been through this dance many times, though he had to be careful. Sometimes the young men truly wanted nothing more than a smile from him and a few kind words.

But he was fairly sure Eldacar wasn’t interested in his advice. He had seen the young man’s gaze flicker over him, even licking his lips! No, there was nothing subtle about this one.

“May I be of help, Captain Boromir?” Eldacar said, coming much too close.

“Please. I’ve gotten lost. How far back does this passage go? I do not remember there being a passage out of the cave here.”

“There are none. This is part of the stream bed that was filled in. It goes back only a short distance.”

Boromir smiled. “Show me.” Eldacar hurried to obey.

As he followed the young man, desire grew in him. He had been uncomfortably aroused as soon as he had arrived in the refuge and saw Faramir, lightly clad, in a thin shirt and old leggings, as his brother must always be when at home in the cave.

“He didn’t dress up for me,” Boromir thought in amusement. He was dressed informally as well, having put on the green and brown clothing of the Rangers for his journey. He had slipped off his boots in the map room, and was wearing only breeches and his shirt. Soft sand was under his feet.

He turned a corner and found Eldacar half hidden in what looked like the beginning of another cave; when he stepped into it, he could see it was shallow, only a few feet deep.

“This is as far back as it goes,” Eldacar said. He swallowed, and added, “Captain Boromir.”

Boromir eyed him speculatively. He wanted to see Faramir, but seeing Faramir alone late at night . . . perhaps it would be better if he dallied with this young man and cooled his ardour harmlessly. Due to his increasing anxiety about Gondor’s defense, it had been several months since he had satisfied his urges.

He stepped close to Eldacar. The young man did not pull away, looking him steadily in the eye. He was the same height as Boromir.

This was the part Boromir liked best: the unknown. Nearly all of the young men who threw themselves at him were only dimly aware of what they wanted. Boromir unleashed the longing in them, perhaps because he was larger than life to the young soldiers.

It was so sweet to kiss a man who had never been kissed, to feel the strong arms wrap around him, the body lean against him in supplication. He saw Eldacar looking mildly alarmed, and he smiled at the thought of what his face must have looked like.

He resolved to start gently. “Do not be afraid,” he said, and touched Eldacar’s cheek with his fingertips. The young man closed his eyes and inclined his head towards Boromir’s hand until his cheek rested in Boromir’s palm. That settled it. He leaned forward and kissed Eldacar, still keeping his body a hand’s breadth away.

He forgot caution in an instant, for the young man was hot in his arms, with a sweet mouth that opened under his immediately. Their bodies met. Boromir stroked Eldacar’s hair, then he reached below his shirt to touch the man’s smooth, muscular back. Eldacar’s hands were on his waist, hesitating to slip lower.

He broke the kiss for a moment. “You can touch me there,” he said quietly. The young man’s hands uncertainly caressed his buttocks. He reminded himself to proceed slowly. This young man knew little, or nothing, of loving another man. But how he wanted it! Eldacar’s erection pressed into Boromir’s thigh. Boromir slid his hands down Eldacar’s body to his buttocks, pulling the young man to him.

“Eldacar? May I have a word with you?”

The two of them drew apart at the sound of Faramir’s voice. Swiftly, shirts, leggings, and hair were arranged. Faramir rounded the corner and stopped dead, taking them in.

“Boromir,” Faramir said. Boromir was too shocked to speak. He was painfully aware that he was erect. Perversely, the situation excited him and he grew harder.

Eldacar broke the silence. “Captain Faramir,” he said. “Captain Boromir was . . . ”

Boromir was stunned at the murderous look Faramir gave to Eldacar. The young man’s voice trailed off. “If I may be excused, my lord,” he said tremulously. Faramir nodded, and the young man ran down the passage.

Boromir took hold of his emotions with great effort. “I’m afraid you have ruined that lad’s bit of fun.”

The intense expression on Faramir’s face reminded him of something. A wave of heat ran through him as he remembered: the passionate expression Faramir had had all those years ago when he was being taken by Mardil.

Faramir took several steps towards Boromir, then stopped.

“I wished to speak to you tonight.” Faramir’s voice held a trace of apology.

Love swept through Boromir, leaving him strangely helpless. All these years, Faramir had never berated him, never said a cruel word to him. And, greatly provoked this evening, his brother was not going to change that, already seeking to mend what could be a great rift between them.

Boromir had worked hard at keeping the young men out of Faramir’s sight. This was his first failure.

He had never heard a single rumor about Faramir, not that it mattered. He knew that Faramir had been faithful to him, while Boromir had never been faithful, hurting Faramir over and over again, starting with Mardil.

“I’m sorry, brother, if I have hurt you.” Boromir said softly. He closed the distance between them and put his hand on Faramir’s upper arm. His body betrayed him, his hand clasping the hard muscle more than needed. Faramir smiled weakly.

“Do not worry; I understand. Eldacar is a beautiful young man.” Faramir tried to inject heartiness into his tone, with grotesque effect. His voice was strained and harsh.

Pain filled Boromir. Faramir was hurting and he must make it stop. He slid his hand under Faramir’s hair, lifting it, letting it fall back slowly. He had not touched Faramir’s hair that way for years.

Faramir looked away from him and took a deep breath. Boromir saw sweat on his brow. Then his brother turned and walked away quickly. Boromir followed him. He was not going to let Faramir take this on himself!

He followed Faramir into the map room, where a rough bed had been readied for him, and watched as his brother lit an oil lantern. Boromir pulled the wooden door closed.

“Do you still wish to speak to me this evening?” Boromir asked. He watched Faramir move about the room. Faramir looked so beautiful, and he wanted to touch him so badly. He clenched his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching for Faramir.

Faramir shook his head. “No, perhaps not. It’s very late and we’re both tired.” His hands trembled as he picked up a stack of papers.

Boromir was suddenly desperate. “Faramir,” he said. “I leave here tomorrow. I leave Minas Tirith in five days.”

Faramir kept his face averted, looking down at a shelf full of books.

_Please look at me, brother._ “Faramir,” Boromir said, “You and I might not meet again.”

He cursed himself when Faramir swayed, placing his hand on the wall.

Boromir rushed to him and embraced him, holding him up. “How dare you ask me for forgiveness! It is I that should ask you. For all these years, you have suffered because of me.”

Faramir wrapped his arms around Boromir’s neck, hanging on him for support. “I do not know what you mean,” Faramir said uncertainly.

“Just now! You were sorry for interrupting me with Eldacar! As if it were not I who was doing something unforgivable!” Boromir was outraged that Faramir would deny the obvious. Did Faramir not know how he had looked at Eldacar, with passionate hatred in his face? Boromir had never seen him look at anyone like that.

“Boromir! I have not suffered for years on your account. That is absurd.”

Boromir stopped breathing for a moment. Faramir was in his arms. They were alone. There was a bed in the room. He took hold of Faramir’s hips and pulled them against him, pressing his erection into Faramir.

“So I have suffered alone?” Boromir whispered. _Do not deny it, Faramir! You love me!_ He took his hands from Faramir’s hips and once again lifted the hair, this time on either side of Faramir’s face, letting it slide back.

Faramir stared at him, unmoving. Boromir leaned forward and touched his lips gently to Faramir’s. It was the same way he had kissed Faramir for years, though he let his lips linger a little longer.

“These past years, I have sought comfort with . . . others such as Eldacar. Perhaps it has been too easy for me; they come to me, I never have to seek them out,” Boromir said apologetically. Did Faramir know of the men he had had? He thought his brother must have, though it did not seem so, judging by the way he had looked at Eldacar. If so, what Boromir had done was unforgivable, casting it into Faramir’s face, and with one of his own men!

“How many?” Faramir asked, surprising him

“Truly, I do not know. A dozen?” How could it matter? One was as bad as a hundred.

“So many; did none of them then satisfy?” Faramir’s voice was steady.

It took him a moment to understand the question, then Boromir felt his breath quicken. “No, they did not.”

“Perhaps you have been seeking comfort in the wrong place,” Faramir said. His eyes were grave, with only a hint of challenge.

Faramir’s arms around his neck pulled Boromir’s face close. Fire raced through his veins. Faramir’s mouth was so near he could reach out with his tongue and lick it. _I’m going to do it . . ._

“Not perhaps,” Boromir whispered. He pressed hard onto Faramir’s mouth with his own. _I love you._

Faramir’s body pushed into his, from lips to knees. Faramir’s erection rubbed against his own through their thin clothing. _Now. It is happening now._

He pulled Faramir to the rough bed and they fell on it, still kissing. Boromir thrust his tongue into Faramir’s mouth and wondered that he had ever thought another man’s mouth sweet. Faramir was letting him explore his mouth, yet there was nothing passive about it. Instead, it was an order Boromir must obey.

Boromir ripped Faramir’s shirt open and sucked on the nipples. The hardness of the nipples caressed his tongue, and he moaned, as if it were he who was being pleasured by the act, not Faramir.

He tugged Faramir’s leggings down, then stood and removed his own clothing, destroying the fastenings in his haste. He couldn’t bear to be not touching Faramir. He lay back on top of Faramir on the bed. He had to touch every inch of him.

“Don’t stop this time,” Faramir said. The desperation in his voice squeezed Boromir’s heart. _Why did I stop that time? Why did I wait? Dear gods, why?_

“I won’t,” Boromir said, kissing Faramir hard. With his foot, he kicked Faramir’s leggings the rest of the way down and off. Faramir moaned as their erections touched with no garments intervening.

Boromir put a hand between Faramir’s legs, his fingers pressing, searching. He wet the fingers in his mouth and returned them, one finger finding Faramir’s opening.

Faramir lifted up his hips. “Do it now,” he begged. “Don’t stop.”

Boromir licked his hand and rubbed the wetness into Faramir’s cleft as Faramir gasped. Faramir wet his own hand and rubbed his saliva all over Boromir’s cock, then leaned back and supported his upper body with his hands. Boromir sat back on his haunches and grasped Faramir’s waist, lifting him.

_It is happening now._ No more preparation was made. Boromir pushed himself inside Faramir, grasping Faramir’s hips. Faramir moaned and put his feet flat on the bed to lift his hips higher, and Boromir sank in deeper.

Only after he was inside Faramir and thrusting as hard as he could did he realize that something was missing. The feeling of power, of domination, was absent. The reverse seemed to be happening. Faramir was not obliterated by his lust; he was more sharply present than ever before. Boromir was aware of Faramir’s smell, his breathing, his hot skin, and, most of all, the tight flesh gripping his cock.

And he was fast becoming less and less aware of himself. He came to with a start at the sound of Faramir’s teeth clashing, the back of Faramir’s head bumping the wall of the cave. He was taking Faramir as hard and as fast as he could, yet it was all for Faramir, not for him. He was there to pleasure Faramir, and for no other reason was he on this earth.

Boromir rose up on his knees and wrapped his arms around Faramir’s hips, holding him as if in a sling; Faramir kept his hands on the bed to steady himself, his feet in the air.

Boromir could see and feel that his shift in position was driving Faramir into ecstasy. He no longer had to move his hips; instead he could move Faramir against him, using only his arms. He could thrust so fast this way . . . Faramir’s head fell back and Boromir’s heart stopped; it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Faramir’s teeth clenched and his come spattered Boromir’s chest. Without warning, Boromir climaxed. He made one last mighty drive and let out a strangled cry.

They fell slowly onto the bed and did not move, a tangle of limbs. Boromir lost all awareness for a time, perhaps an hour.

Boromir got up from the bed and gently washed Faramir with a dampened cloth, then washed himself. He filled a cup with water and drank it down, then filled it again for Faramir.

He lay next to Faramir on the bed, so they were side by side, and they stared into each other’s eyes. They clasped hands. Faramir’s eyes grew wet and a tear trickled out of one eye and onto the bed.

Boromir lifted a finger and traced the tear. “I swear to you that you will see me again, even if only for one last time,” he said.

Gently, they embraced, and began to make love slowly. Faramir caressed his skin from his neck to his feet, and Boromir could not deter him. “You have had a chance to touch me like this more than once, but I have never been able to touch you thus,” Faramir said, so Boromir allowed it.

He consented as well to Faramir’s insistence on taking Boromir into his mouth, and then he was mastered by the feeling, giving himself completely to Faramir. Afterwards, Faramir kissed him and let him taste his own seed. “I have wanted that for so long,” Faramir whispered. “I can’t remember the first time I wanted it.”

He kissed Boromir again and smiled. “There is so much I have not done, and you will give it all to me tonight.”

“Yes,” Boromir said, serious. “You will take me now. That’s what is next.”

“No,” Faramir said, shaking his head. “That . . . I cannot. It would be wrong.”

“Because I am your elder? We are young no longer. And I insist on it. You cannot deny me anything.” Boromir spoke confidently, and Faramir laughed.

“You are right, I cannot.”

Boromir turned over to make it easier for him. Faramir started by touching Boromir’s neck with his lips, and he laughed with delight when Boromir’s body jerked and pushed against him. “What is this, brother? A weakness I know nothing of?” He nibbled on the back of Boromir’s neck with his teeth. Boromir thrashed beneath him, moaning. “At last I understand the bites,” Faramir muttered.

Faramir let his lips and tongue travel all over Boromir’s neck, shoulders, back, buttocks, and legs until Boromir was mad with lust. He lifted his hips and pushed back against Faramir, pleading with him to take him.

“Now you know how I felt that night, when I was recovering from the fever,” Faramir whispered. “You tortured me with your hands, and then you left me! You barely left in time. I was about to pull the blankets down and confront you with the evidence.”

“You? You were aroused?”

“Aroused! How could I not be? I never knew if you intentionally did that or not.”

“Not intentionally.”

“Even when you stroked me here?”

Boromir cried out as Faramir’s fingers trailed over his opening.

“That was an accident, mostly,” Boromir panted.

Faramir touched Boromir’s opening gently with his tongue. Boromir knew Faramir had never done this, and forced himself to have patience. His resolve vanished immediately as the tongue lashed him and pushed into him.

Finally, he felt Faramir’s erection pushing inside, and heard Faramir’s groan at the sensation. Faramir seemed to have no patience left either, for he pushed in hard as soon as he was a third of the way in, and he thrust at a rapid pace. His hand circled Boromir’s cock.

It had been more than a dozen years since another man had taken him, but this was not another man, it was Faramir. He could feel Faramir’s love for him with every stroke. It was as if Faramir was trying to become one with him; there was no intent to dominate, or desire for his submission. Only love, waves and waves of love. He cried out when Faramir bit the back of his neck. _Dear gods, his teeth on the back of my neck . . . I want to feel this forever._

“Shining one. I love you,” Faramir gasped in his ear. Faramir’s body stilled for a moment before his climax took him, and Boromir let himself go at last, coming in Faramir’s hand while Faramir came inside him.

***

Boromir woke up on the bed, dim grey light outlining the door. Faramir was gone, back in his own room before his men called him. It didn’t matter. Boromir held a hand up, stroked a finger lightly across his palm and wrist, and smiled.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds the most dangerous battles are those of the heart. Warnings: homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest, battlefield violence, mild consensual B&D. Non-canon Iorlas. Original characters in supporting roles.

_Warning: Contains explicit slash, and lots of it._

**March 10, 3019 T.A.**

Faramir left the White Tower, almost stumbling in his weariness.

As he crossed the courtyard on his way to bed and rest, it happened again: out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall shape walking confidently towards him, the stride so much like Boromir’s that Faramir felt another surge of sickening hope. Since he had arrived in Minas Tirith that day, he had discovered that the city was haunted by Boromir. Wherever he looked, he thought he saw his brother.

He halted, realizing the figure was, in truth, coming towards him. Not Boromir. Taller, with dark hair, yet with the same strength and warrior’s pride in his step. The man stopped before him and bowed slightly, introducing himself as Galdor, a Guard of the Tower.

Faramir uttered a few polite words: yet another soldier who wished to offer him sympathy. Although Faramir had known for two weeks that Boromir was dead, today it had been confirmed for him by Pippin and Gandalf. Now he knew exactly when and how Boromir had fallen. The man before him blurred for a moment as tears filled Faramir’s eyes.

To his surprise, the man clasped his hand. “Your brother entrusted to me a message for you, if he did not return.”

“A message,” Faramir said thickly. “What is this message?”

“I would not speak of it here,” the man said in a low voice. He was tall; Faramir had to look up at him. “Please come to my lodging, in the fifth circle of the city. I live there with another Guard, Iorlas.”

“Iorlas. Is he not Beregond’s brother? I know of him.”

“Yes. Please come to our home tonight. Or tomorrow, if you are too weary. Please, my lord. Your brother asked me . . . “

Faramir felt pity for the tall man, whose voice had seized with grief. “I will come now. I leave the city again tomorrow, early.” He did not add: And may never return. That was something they both knew without speaking of it.

Trying to walk briskly, he went with Galdor through the long tunnel down to the sixth level, and then through the gate to the fifth circle. They walked to the northwest side of the city, facing Mount Mindolluin, almost overlooking the Hallows. Faramir followed the tall man around a large, lofty house, then up a steep staircase at the rear to the second floor.

***

He grew wary during the brief journey, finding it increasingly strange that Boromir entrusted a Tower Guard to give him a message following his unlooked for death. What possible message could it be, that he could not have given it to Faramir himself?

He was slightly reassured when they entered the sitting room. It was cozy, with a roaring fire and comfortable furniture. Another man was there, with dark hair and light grey eyes that regarded him sorrowfully. His resemblance to Beregond was strong, so Faramir went to him and clasped his hand, not waiting for an introduction.

“Iorlas. Thank you for welcoming me to your lodging.”

Iorlas turned away from him hastily and busied himself with wine bottles and glasses.

“My lord, please take a drop with us to keep out the chill of this gloom,” Iorlas said. Faramir accepted. He wanted nothing, but he knew his hosts would be discomfited if he refused.

He sat on a couch close by the fire, his glass in hand. As soon as he was no longer standing, his weariness overtook him, his eyes threatening to close. He fought it off with an effort and regarded his hosts.

The two men seated themselves on the couch opposite him. They sat close to each other, the sides of their bodies touching. He watched in growing bewilderment as Galdor put his arm around Iorlas’s shoulders, and the younger man leaned against him. Forgetting himself, Faramir stared.

“Galdor and I do not need to hide anything from you,” Iorlas said. His look of sorrow had lightened when he leaned against the tall man. Faramir’s surprise was greater than his alarm. “We have lived here for almost twenty years. Your brother introduced us to each other.”

They sipped wine as Faramir digested this information: The men were lovers. “How came you to know Boromir?” Faramir said at last.

“I met him years ago, on his first campaign. I was only nineteen then, but thought I was quite the veteran.” Iorlas laughed. “Alas, Mardil was with the company as well.” He took a sip of his wine.

Faramir paled. He had kept Mardil out of his thoughts for years. “You knew Mardil? You knew he was . . .”

“Boromir’s lover? Yes. They were lovers for four years.”

“What happened to him? Do you know?” Faramir asked. _Four years!_ He had not known they had been lovers for so long.

“He left Gondor to dwell in Rohan. We have not seen Mardil since.” Galdor’s expression was fierce, and Faramir gladly dropped the subject. There was something in the way they looked at him that made him suspect they knew of him and Mardil. A look of pity, perhaps. He sipped his wine and looked at the fire.

“And the message?” Faramir said. Iorlas rose and left the room. Galdor sat next to Faramir. Not too close, Faramir noticed. The normal distance a man left between himself and another man.

His wariness returned. His grief had made him vulnerable for a moment. Now doubt was assailing him, due in part to Iorlas mentioning Mardil. There could be no happiness where that man was, Faramir was sure of it.

“What surety do I have?” he asked Galdor.

“That I do indeed have a message for you from Boromir?”

“Yes.”

Galdor took Faramir’s hands and turned them over, palms up. Faramir allowed the touch reluctantly, his body stiffening. Galdor pushed up Faramir’s sleeves an inch or two while Faramir’s heart pounded. The tall man stroked his fingers across Faramir’s palms and wrists.

“The message is: He loves you. He wanted me to tell you, if he fell in battle far from home.”

Faramir stared at his palms. He forgot Galdor was next to him. He forgot everything except that he would never feel that touch again. As he started to sob, strong arms clasped him. He was dimly aware of them, an anchor to the world that fell away from him. His weeping was painful, spasm following spasm, until he was exhausted.

He opened his burning, gritty eyes. Iorlas was sitting on the other side of him. Both he and Galdor had tear streaked faces. They looked frightened, and Faramir tried to speak reassuringly.

“I have had no chance to grieve, no safe place to do so until now.” The men relaxed at his words. They sat back and sipped wine again.

“My brother trusted you greatly,” Faramir said at last. “I did not know he had spoken of . . . me to anyone.”

Galdor said, “He told me many years ago. He feared that some crisis would come, and he needed one man to trust. Or else he would go mad, he said.”

Faramir smiled. “I have told no one, and I suppose I have gone mad.” He paused. “I was not so fortunate in my friends as Boromir.”

“Please, Faramir. Let us be your friends as well,” Iorlas burst out.

Faramir smiled. “I would be glad to have your friendship.”

Iorlas left the room again. Faramir purposely moved closer to Galdor, for the man’s presence reassured him. He wanted to lean into him as Iorlas had, but he could not let himself trust that much, not yet.

Galdor reached out a hand and touched Faramir’s hair. “Do you wish to speak of him?” His voice was soft.

Faramir struggled against another wave of grief that threatened to stop his tongue, for he desired to speak of Boromir desperately. Abruptly, he realized there was something he must tell Galdor.

“Boromir came to me in Henneth Annun, before he left on his journey. He told me he loved me, then. We made love.” Faramir spoke as softly as Galdor. He watched the tall man’s eyes grow enormous with surprise.

Galdor wept, and it was Faramir’s turn to hold him and comfort him. “Thank you for telling me,” Galdor said when he could speak again. “It gladdens my heart to know this. I do not mean to cause you hurt, but Boromir suffered greatly because of his love for you. He knew no love and took no lover.”

Faramir raised his eyebrows inquiringly. He had learned from Boromir himself that he had taken at least a dozen lovers. It was strange that his brother had kept this from his friends. Galdor sensed Faramir’s doubt.

“I am not saying he was celibate; he was not. But the young men -- he never allowed himself to feel anything for them, nor did he allow them to grow attached to him,” Galdor said. “And every last one of them looked like you,” he added absently.

Faramir stiffened, and Galdor put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I do not mean to hurt you,” Galdor said.

Faramir said, “I did not know that . . . that they looked like me.”

“I apologize. It is not important. I brought you here not only to give you Boromir’s message, but so you could speak of him, for I know there is no one else you could speak to of your lover.”

“My lover.” Faramir tried out the phrase uncertainly. Then it came flooding from him like a torrent.

***

Faramir was fourteen when he had first known he wanted Boromir, though he had not admitted it to himself for two more years.

He remembered the day well: he had been in his bath, and Boromir had washed his hair. The strong fingers slid to his neck and shoulders, and for a moment they pressed into his upper chest.

Arousal had stirred in him mildly before that day, when in Boromir’s company, but this time it was unmistakable. There was only one thing he could do: deny it.

He was going through an awkward phase, his body changing at a furious pace. He had emissions while he slept, and, when he recalled his dreams, they were hazy images of Boromir holding him tightly, lying on top of him during weapons practice. It was meaningless, he told himself.

A year later, Boromir had caressed him again, when Faramir was recovering from an illness, and that time it was far harder to convince himself it was a mere accident he found Boromir’s touch arousing. As Boromir’s hands slid over him, Faramir lost control. As he was about to do throw himself at his brother, Boromir had hurriedly left the room, leaving him alone with his need, which he had taken care of swiftly with his right hand.

Then for a time his temptation was removed: Boromir was gone from Minas Tirith almost continuously until Mardil entered Faramir’s life. That Mardil and Boromir looked much alike Faramir did not realize then. After Boromir had found him with Mardil, Faramir had revealed his desire at last, to himself as much as to Boromir. And Boromir had rejected him.

Then followed three years of estrangement from the person he most loved.

The agony of it ended suddenly late one night. Boromir had caressed him lovingly, thinking Faramir asleep. From then on Faramir caressed Boromir whenever they met, sometimes so briefly he was uncertain Boromir took notice.

“The date?” Galdor interrupted. “When he came to your room that night?”

“It was years ago.” Faramir thought a moment. “Sixteen years.”

Galdor grunted thoughtfully, then Faramir continued.

When Boromir had realized the meaning behind Faramir’s caresses, his brother had trembled against him. For years, the small, secret touches were all that they shared.

“Galdor, do you know why Boromir denied himself?” Faramir asked. “For I would have gladly . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I asked him that question myself. He feared that his love for you would be harmful to you. He did not wish to . . . eclipse you.”

Faramir fell silent as he recalled Boromir’s lovemaking in Henneth Annun. It had indeed been forceful and possessive, but as his own love was equal to it, it had not subsumed him. The opposite had happened: he had been exalted by it.

“Galdor, why does Iorlas leave us?” Faramir asked.

“He has been unable to stop weeping for many days. He does not think he can sit with us and speak of Boromir yet.”

“They were great friends, then?”

“More than that. Boromir was his first lover.”

Faramir reddened. “Were you his lover as well?”

Galdor smiled. “I tried to be. When I spoke to you of Boromir’s self-denial, I was referring in part to myself. I would have been his lover if he would have had me. He and I lay together a few times. Too few.” He paused. “I loved him as much as I love Iorlas,” Galdor said in a low voice, full of pain.

In the two short hours he had been in Galdor’s company, Faramir sensed already that he could come to love the man. The depth of Boromir’s sacrifice hit him sharply.

“So, Faramir, are you a lover of men?”

Faramir came back to the present with difficulty. He had been thinking of Boromir’s body against his in the darkness of Henneth Annun. “I do not know. There are woman that I have found beautiful, though none had a congenial nature.” They both chuckled.

“Faramir, I should explain he did not speak all of these thoughts to me. I knew him for more than half his life, and there is much I learned of him, reading between the words.”

Faramir nodded to show he understood, and Galdor continued.

“You were the one great love of his life. But he would not have himself be _your_ only love, after his death. Do you understand?” Galdor’s voice roughened.

“Yes,” Faramir said in a low voice. He looked up when Iorlas entered the room. Faramir stood, politely, until Iorlas was seated.

Galdor rose and went to Iorlas, speaking to him rapidly in a hushed voice. Iorlas’s intent gaze fell on Faramir and he knew with certainty that Galdor was telling Iorlas of his night with Boromir.

Galdor returned and sat next to Faramir. “There is something I believe Boromir would like to have done. There was one other, besides the three of us in this room” -- Galdor’s voice broke for a moment -- “who loved him. If you would take some token to this man, on Boromir’s behalf . . . The situation is a delicate one.”

“Who is the man?” Faramir asked, struck by an unreasonable but inescapable stab of jealousy.

“He is a scribe for your father. His name is Eradan.”

Faramir knew Eradan well, though not intimately. He had not known that Boromir had even been acquainted with him.

“Eradan formerly served with your brother in Cair Andros. After their falling out, Boromir obtained a position for him with the Lord of the City. Your father had been trying to get his services, so it was easily accomplished.”

“So this was some time ago,” Faramir said. Eradan had been his father’s scribe for at least fifteen years. His jealousy ebbed slightly. Then an uneasy feeling came over him as he recalled that Eradan was his age, exactly, and had the same build. The same generous mouth. A flush crept over his cheeks. “What token should I give him, do you think?” His mind went blank. He could think of nothing.

Galdor smiled sympathetically. “Give him something that belonged to Boromir. Boromir’s effects are still in the Citadel, are they not?”

“Of course,” Faramir said, embarrassed that he had not thought of it. “I will do it. Alas, I will not be able to do it tonight, and tomorrow I must leave early to Osgiliath. Will you . . .”

“If you are unable to perform this task, I shall do so,” Galdor said calmly. “Boromir deeply regretted the pain he caused Eradan.” He stood and kissed Faramir on the brow, then Iorlas on the lips, and left the room.

The two men regarded each other with frank curiosity. Iorlas rose and sat next to Faramir.

“I did not know of Boromir’s regard for you until after your brother’s death,” Iorlas spoke so quietly Faramir had trouble hearing his words. “Galdor kept his secret well. It explained much to me. For I loved Boromir, and would have been more to him than I was.”

Faramir was silent. Iorlas’s grief had tightened his throat.

Suddenly Iorlas gave him a friendly grin. “If I had known who I was competing against, I would have abandoned the attempt much earlier.” He touched Faramir’s cheek. “We are of a height, and when you were younger, you and I were exactly alike in build.” He pulled Faramir’s hand into his lap and silently compared their hands, both with long, strong fingers.

“I did not know that Boromir sought . . .”

“Consolation? No matter, for he did not find it. Galdor just told me that he did, before the end, with you. I am glad, for many years I have watched his pain. Yet Galdor and I were a comfort to him, for we had everything he could not have with you. And that made him love us more, not less. Is it any wonder we loved him so much?” Iorlas’s voice grew strained and he rose and left the room hurriedly.

Faramir stood to leave. He was both comforted and despondent. Comforted, that his brother had had the love of his friends these long painful years, and despondent that Boromir had suffered so much on his behalf.

Galdor came back into the room and helped Faramir put on his cloak. When Faramir was ready to depart, he clasped Galdor’s hand.

“I envy you and Iorlas.” Faramir waved a hand, taking in all of the home in his gesture.

“And we envy you,” Galdor said, his face still, as if he controlled it with effort. Faramir blinked and left hastily.

***

**April 10, 3019 T.A.**

Faramir entered the small chamber in the White Tower where Eradan was at work. He had been unable to carry out Galdor’s errand until now, lying ill in the Houses of Healing.

The scribe stood when Faramir came in through the door. “My lord,” he said.

“Please, Eradan, be seated.” Faramir was beset with awkwardness. Now that Denethor was dead, Eradan was his scribe, he realized.

The scribe sat. He was a handsome man, Faramir thought, noting his silvery light brown hair. Like smoke. He wore a short cropped beard, identical to Boromir’s. Faramir sat down opposite him.

Faramir had spent considerable time going through Boromir’s belongings, choosing a brooch that Boromir had worn frequently, for Faramir had given it to him himself. It was of gold, with a red stone. He placed the brooch in Eradan’s hand. Eradan did not take his eyes off of it, and Faramir knew that he recognized it.

Eradan looked up at him and gave him a probing glance. Faramir did not look away. He had been the cause of this man’s pain. No one had been loved by Boromir, but Faramir.

“Before my brother went on his journey, he asked me to give you a token from him, if he did not return.” Faramir’s voice was far from steady.

Eradan continued to regard him searchingly. Faramir moved closer to him, sitting next to him instead of opposite him. “You were dear to my brother,” Faramir said. “I did not know how dear, until recently.”

Eradan’s gaze dropped again to the brooch, as if it was indescribably precious. Faramir fought to keep his voice strong. He put his hand over Eradan’s, and said, “Do you wish to speak of him?”

_Please speak to me of him: my shining one._

***

THE END

With special thanks to Calenharn Elflover and the Filthy Man lovers at LOM.


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